Page 12 of Sweet Torment

I hope like hell that crazy bitch stays away from all of us.

4

WELLER

I glare at the bars of my cage, grinding my teeth so hard that I’m giving myself a headache. If I focused any harder, I could probably melt the metal with my mind. My pack… Christ. Matted hair, wrinkled clothes, faces wrecked and haunted, but they’re all in one piece. Still breathing.

Why move us here now? What’s the play? My father wants the bond with Bianca gone—that much is obvious—but Montgomery? He’s dragging his feet. The doctor’s hesitation reeks of worry. Maybe because breaking the bond could kill us. One of us. Both of us. Hard to tell which scenario keeps him up at night and which one of us he’d want to survive.

My gut says it's Bianca who matters to him.

Freddie’s face is a mess of fading bruises, reminders of Owen’s fist and Whitney’s orders. All of them have that hollow, sedated look, but it’s what’s on my neck that has their eyes fixated.

“She really fucking went for it.” Tristan can’t look away from Bianca’s mark, like he never expected it could ever be this easy. Owen’s staring too, hands fisted on his knees. Jealousy rolls off them, but I understand. I'd feel the same.

Freddie mashes his cheek to the bars, not caring when they dig in. “Did you see her?” His voice is desperate, eyes burning with hope that I don’t want to kill. “Is she okay?”

“Alive.” That’s the only truth I have, so I grab it with both hands. The bond thrums faintly, muffled, a chain yanking me toward her through a wall of water. “She’s locked up somewhere in Montgomery’s office. I haven’t seen her, and I fucking begged.”

Understatement. I lost my dignity pleading for a glimpse of her. The need claws at me all the time.

“You can feel her? She’s yours? You’re hers?” Owen’s voice is thick and on edge. He’s halfway out of his skin, vibrating inside the cage.

I want to spill everything. Bianca didn’t just mark me. She erased every scar I’ve carried for five years and washed the slate clean. Her teeth in my flesh felt like finding refuge. Even with the bond smothered, it’s the only thing that soothes me. But looking at them, I choke back the details—they don’t need that kind of torment.

“Yeah.” I stroke the ridges of her mark, thumb tracing the outline again and again. “But it’s muted now… like there’s a barrier in the way. Drugs.”

“Lucky fuck. I’d kill to feel her,” Owen snaps, and I believe him. He means it.

Tristan leans forward, words barely a whisper. “What did Montgomery do to you? Is Whitney’s bond gone?”

I press my fingers against Bianca's bite for the hundredth time today. The indentations where her teeth broke skin have become my touchstone, my proof that she's mine, that this isn't some elaborate hallucination. The raised edges under my fingertips ground me in a way that nothing else can.

“Mostly kept me under. Monitored vitals, ran blood panels. Nothing dramatic.” I watch their faces, weighing every reaction. I don't mention the interrogations or how Montgomery's eyes lit up when I discussed Bianca. There’s an obsession there that I can’t quite put my finger on. “Whitney is gone. Like she never existed."

Tristan's eyebrows shoot up. "They said that bonding someone else wouldn’t be possible⁠—"

"I know." I hold their gazes, one by one. This should be a conversation for after we’re free, and maybe even her secret to reveal, but I can’t keep it buried. "Bianca is our scent match. Montgomery asked me if I knew anything about pre-bonds. He was evasive, but my guess is that we formed the scent match because of how close we were growing up."

The silence that follows is shocked. Owen's mouth falls open slightly, and Freddie's eyes widen.

“I always wondered if she would be,” Tristan says, tone faraway. “I never wanted anyone else.”

“But how do you know, Weller?” Freddie’s not convinced. “Wouldn’t we all have smelled her? Is it just you?”

“I didn’t smell her. I tasted her.” I can’t stop thinking about her skin against my lips, the sweetness on my tongue.

Freddie’s pupils blow wide at that, a flush creeping up his neck.

“Dude, I want to fucking kill you right now,” Owen grits out, the words a warning growl.

Tristan shifts uncomfortably, adjusting himself without subtlety. "What does she taste like?"

My throat tightens. I shouldn't tell them—it can only torment them further—but screw it. They need something to hold onto in this nightmare.

“Sweet. Vanilla and amber, with this warmth that spreads out inside you.” I watch their faces as it sinks in. “She’s always been ours. Montgomery knew. Hell, I think our fathers knew too.”

“How do you know that?” Tristan again, sharp and rabid for answers.