Wren

“Oh my god,” I heave, trembling. “Oh my god.”

Ezra pockets my phone, rubbing my back and holding my hair.

My throat is raw, eyes watering.

The image filters into my mind again, and another round of vomit spills from my lips. I retch, stomach cramping.

When I’m settled enough, Ezra hands me a bottle of water and a mint.

“Thank you,” I croak.

He helps me up and into the car, and I stare at the road as he drives, unblinking. The image of Tristan bruised and bloodied takes ...