Page 152 of Bitter Truths

The house I played in as a child feels like a prison now. Same expensive furniture, same tasteful art, but the air itself feels poisoned. Knowing what happens in the basement changes everything.

I pause at a corner, listening. Two voices drift from down the hall—household staff discussing preparations.

“The presentation is about to begin,” a woman says.

“Heading there now,” a man replies.

My blood runs cold.

I follow the sound of voices echoing from deeper in the house. The murmur grows louder as I approach—a mixture of polite laughter and hushed conversations.

The double doors to what used to be the ballroom stand partly open, light spilling into the darkened hallway. I edge closer, positioning myself to see through the crack without being seen.

What I witness stops my heart.

The room is filled with people in expensive clothes, seated in a semicircle facing a raised platform. And on that platform...

My alphas. They stand rigid, faces blank, eyes empty. They're dressed identically in black pants and nothing else, their bodies on display like products in a store window. The sight of them sends relief and anger coursing through me in equal measure.

Whitney paces in front of them in a pristine white dress, microphone in hand. "As you've seen, the bond allows for complete control over even the strongest alphas."

Her voice carries the polished tone of a practiced sales pitch, but I catch the malicious glint in her eyes.

"Subject Three," she points to Owen. "Step forward."

Owen moves to the center of the platform.

"Subject Four," she continues, gesturing to Freddie. "Stand in front of him."

Freddie positions himself before Owen, his face blank.

"Subject Three, punch Subject Four in the mouth. Hard enough to draw blood."

Without hesitation, Owen's fist slams into Freddie's face. The sound of the impact turns my stomach. Blood sprays from Freddie's split lip, trailing down his chin.

"Again," Whitney commands.

Another punch. Freddie's head snaps back, but he doesn't defend himself. Doesn't even raise his hands.

"As you can see," Whitney explains to her audience, "the bond overrides even pack loyalty. Potential military applications are obvious."

She turns back to the alphas. "Subject Four, get on all fours."

Freddie drops to his hands and knees, blood still dripping from his mouth.

"Now bark like a dog. Loudly."

Freddie's face remains blank as he barks—once, twice, three times. The hollow sound echoes through the room.

"Now wet yourself," Whitney commands, her professional demeanor slipping just enough to reveal her cruelty.

I watch in horror as a dark stain spreads across Freddie's pants. The room fills with uncomfortable chuckles and whispers.

"Entertainment applications," Whitney explains smoothly. "Reality programming, adult entertainment, private collections. The possibilities are endless."

She turns to Weller. "Subject One, approach."

Weller steps forward, his eyes burning with hatred even as his body complies.