Page 13 of Sweet Torment

“Montgomery didn’t deny it when I accused him of suppressing her omega.” Hot rage builds in my chest as I say it out loud. “They kept her from us.” So many years lost.

“Sick fucks.” Owen’s face twists, eyes going black. “All so they could chain us to Whitney? For money? For the Montgomery name?”

“Our fathers, yeah." I rub my temples, trying to force order from the chaos. "I can't put a finger on Montgomery's interest in Bianca yet. My father wants my bond with her gone, but Montgomery was pushing back, so he's not happy."

Freddie blanches. “Can they even do that?”

“I don’t know. My father mentioned flying in specialists. Some kind of procedure, supposedly high success rate.” As if cutting out my soul is a business win.

“How do we break her out before they get to her? There has to be a way.” Freddie is panicked, knuckles bone-white on the bars.

I have no answer. Just the same question, thumping in my skull. Losing her isn’t an option. That void would swallow me whole. They may as well take me out back and shoot me.

We go quiet, each sinking into the nightmares that plague us.

Exhaustion creeps in and steals us one by one. I cling to the faint, flickering pulse of Bianca in my mind, refusing to let go, hanging on long after the others have faded. But eventually, I can’t fight it.

No dreams. Just cold blackness.

The creak of the door snaps me awake. Light floods in, spilling across the cold floor like a spotlight, harsh and blinding after the oppressive dimness of our surroundings. I blink rapidly, my eyes struggling to adjust as I feel every muscle in my body tense with instinctive alertness. Owen jolts up beside me, predatory and wild, while Freddie and Tristan drag themselves up slower, still swimming through the after-effects of whatever they’d been given.

Montgomery stands at the top of the stairs, backlit like a specter in that blinding white coat. He walks down the steps calmly, tablet in hand. My pulse kicks into overdrive.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he greets us, as if we're colleagues at a conference instead of men locked in cages.

None of us answer. Pointless. Begging gets you nothing. Threats get you shocked. Questions get you ignored.

He doesn’t spare us a glance as he pulls out his phone and calls someone. "Whitney? I need you to come down to the basement. Yes. Right now."

“Fuck,” Owen mutters, the word sour with dread.

Tristan shakes off sleep, meets my gaze, and I can see the tension coiling within him. "It must be the new formula," he says quietly, a grim realization settling over us.

Whitney arrives a few minutes later, practically bouncing as she skips down the steps, her face lit with an unsettling excitement that reminds me of a child on Christmas morning.

“What are you doing, Daddy? Will this fix our bonds?”

Montgomery points to a chair by the cages. “Sit, Whitney. I’ll give you medication first so the procedure doesn’t hurt you.”

She sits, hands folded like she’s awaiting a medal, posture demure and perfect. It’s whiplash, seeing her go from rabid to docile.

“What’s happening?” Freddie’s voice is barely there.

Montgomery doesn't answer, just sets his case on a nearby table and begins removing items.

“What is it?” My voice comes out rough.

“It’s not for you, Mr. Dashwood,” Montgomery tosses over his shoulder.

Whitney’s gloating is so loud it drowns out everything else. She holds out her arm for her father before he even asks, rolling up the sleeve of her pajama top with the fluttery anticipation of a pageant queen waiting for the tiara. The man preps her skin and slides the needle in with barely a pause. She doesn’t flinch, just beams at him, then at us, like she’s being crowned.

“This will prepare your system for the next phase.” His tone is all business. He gestures to a bench over by the wall. “Wait over there, Whitney. I’ll start on the others.”

Next phase of what?

Not long after Whitney sits down, her entire body droops in the chair. Her eyelids close and she slumps forward, drooling. Whatever Montgomery dosed her with, it hit hard. None of us are complaining about the silence.

Then he turns to us. "Mr. Barrett. Your turn," Montgomery says, voice even, calm, almost bored.