Page 1 of Sweet Torment

1

BIANCA

8 Months Ago

“—and that’s when I told the stupid bitch that if she can’t pour a beer right, maybe she should find a job more suited to her skill level, like laying on her back. That’s easy, right? Any whore can do it.” Rodney’s laugh grates on my nerves, and his hand digs deeper into my thigh, his fingers pressing hard enough that I’ll certainly have bruises tomorrow.

Worth it.

The barstool is sticky and uncomfortable under my bare legs, the leather squeaking every time I shift even an inch. I’m wearing a dark wig that’s itchy as hell, and heavy makeup is caked on my face. The disguise wouldn’t fool someone who knows me, but it gives me anonymity if someone who doesn’t looks at the cameras later.

I force a smile, tilt my head, and giggle, revulsed by his mean, small eyes already glazed over from the alcohol. He’s staring at my breasts and licking his lips.

Yeah. That’s definitely not happening, dickhole.

I rarely wear dresses anymore, but tonight, it fits the part I’m playing as alpha bait.

“You’re so bad,” I purr, letting my fingers trail along his forearm. His skin is clammy, and I resist the urge to wipe my hand on my dress afterward.

“Bad girls like bad boys,” Rodney replies, leaning in close enough that I can count each broken capillary on his nose. His breath hits me like a toxic cloud. He stinks of beer, smoke, and something rotten. Still, I lean closer, letting him believe he’s reeling me in. “And you look like you could be very, very bad.”

Oh Rodney, you have no fucking idea.

Ezra’s frustrated voice cuts through my earpiece. Somebody’s impatient. “Bianca, you’ve been at this for forty minutes. Quit playing around. Drug him and get him to the van. We’re scheduled to meet at the drop-off point in less than an hour.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Yes, sir. Right away, sir.

I know the drill. I’ll get him to the van, and we’ll deliver him to the Alpha Severance Unit, where they’ll chemically castrate him, drug him into docility, and lock him away for whatever remains of his shitty life. That’s the plan. Ezra’s plan, anyway. One I really want to stick to because it’s the only way to keep him from giving me that look—the one that makes me feel like I’m the world’s biggest fuck-up.

But I have a problem with the plan. Rodney doesn’t deserve Ezra’s mercy. Not even a little bit.

“Tell me more about your work.” I shift so my dress rides up another inch, grabbing his attention. “You must be so important, managing those construction sites and bossing all those big men around.”

He chuckles and launches into a story about firing someone for being late. His chest puffs with the kind of pride that comes from having a little power and using it to be a dick. His hand slides higher on my thigh, thumb dragging against me in a way that makes my skin want to crawl off my body.

“Haven’t I seen you here before?” I tilt my head as if trying to remember. “With a pretty brunette?”

His hand freezes mid-caress, fingers suddenly digging into my flesh. He goes from dumb drunk to rage drunk in the span of a heartbeat. “I don’t want to talk about that ungrateful cunt.”

Three days ago, the emergency line at the refuge rang at 3 AM. Stacy. Sweet, soft-spoken Stacy with her honey-brown eyes and nervous habit of tucking her hair behind her ear. She had spent three months with us after escaping Rodney the first time. I watched her slowly unfurl, like a flower finally getting sunlight and water after being kept in the dark.

Ezra had spent hours counseling her, explaining in his gentle, understanding way the statistics about returning to abusers. The escalation. The increased danger. But Stacy was more worried about her sixteen-year-old sister than herself. Rodney had threatened to “pay her a visit” if Stacy didn’t come home.

Men really fucking disturb me sometimes.

But she went back.

This time, leaving nearly killed her. I sat beside her hospital bed, holding her limp hand while machines beeped around us. Her face was so swollen I barely recognized her. Purple-black bruises circled her neck where he’d tried to strangle her. Her ankle was shattered from where he stomped on it repeatedly. The doctor said she would probably walk with a limp for the rest of her life.

If the neighbor hadn’t found her in the yard, half-conscious and bleeding internally...

He didn’t care if she died. He probably preferred that she did.

“She seemed sweet,” I press, my voice still sugary while something cold crystallizes beneath my skin.

“Sweet?” Rodney sneers, his fingers digging deeper, the pressure now rather painful. “Sweet, my ass. She was good for two things: taking dick and crying about it afterward. You, though...” His eyes rake over me and linger. “I can tell you know how to treat a man right.”

I give him my best approximation of a seductive smile while my hand trembles under the table—not from fear, but from the herculean effort it takes not to grab my knife and jam it directly into his carotid artery. I imagine the spray of blood, the shock in his eyes as he realizes what’s happening, the gurgling sounds as he drowns in his own fluids. The fantasy is so vivid I can almost feel the warm wetness on my face.