Page 16 of Sweet Torment

I’m not sure why they can’t be the ones hunting me in the woods. The bond hums its agreement, making everything worse, sending another wave of wetness between my thighs.

I pull on clean clothes, but the fabric just agitates me more. The soft cotton of my shirt feels like sandpaper against my nipples. The seam of my shorts presses lightly against my clit with every movement, a constant reminder that I’m empty empty empty. Everything’s too much. Too soft, too rough, too everything.

There’s a soft knock at my door. “Ms. Quinn? It’s time.”

When I glance in the mirror, there’s a wildness in my face I don’t recognize, and I wonder if they’ll see it too. My skin feels too tight, like I’m about to burst out of it. Will they see what’s happening to me? Will they know?

I follow the guard down the hallway, and it’s as if my body knows where we’re going because it’s eager to close the distance. My legs move faster than they should, and my heart beats wildly. Stupid, stupid body.

The guard’s keycard beeps, and he pushes open a heavy door with a plaque that reads “Meeting Room.”

I freeze in the doorway, my stomach dropping to my feet. A floor-to-ceiling glass partition bisects the room, creating two sealed chambers. I won’t get to touch them. Not even a fucking hug.

I turn to glare at the camera in the corner. “You’re an asshole.”

Montgomery’s voice crackles through the intercom. “You asked to see them, Ms. Quinn. To confirm what we agreed upon. I’ve fulfilled that requirement. You have fifteen minutes.”

Fifteen minutes. The clock’s already ticking down.

I move closer to the glass, and the empty room on the other side makes me wince. What if they don’t come? What if this is just another one of Dr. Montgomery’s sick games?

My palms are sweaty, and I wipe them on my shorts.

But then a door opens on their side, and they file in one by one.

My breath catches in my throat. They look like absolute shit.

Owen enters first, shoulders rigid with tension. His face is gaunt, cheekbones sharper than I remember, dark circles under his eyes. His hair is disheveled, a t-shirt hanging loose on his frame. He’s lost weight, and too much of it.

Tristan follows, movements jerky, his usual composure gone. There’s stubble on his jawline, and his eyes dart around the room before landing on me. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach out.

Freddie’s glow has dimmed entirely. His smile when he spots me is a pale imitation of the one I know and love, eyes red-rimmed and a desperation in his face that makes my heart hurt. Even his golden hair looks dull.

Weller is last, and the bond between us burns to close the distance and make contact. His hands tremble, and his usually immaculate appearance is nowhere to be found. His shirt is wrinkled, his hair an afterthought.

The moment they’re all inside, they rush forward as one, pressing their bodies against the glass barrier.

“Princess.” Owen’s voice is hoarse, like he hasn’t used it in days. He presses his palms flat against the glass, and I match him with mine.

My body moves down the line, drawn to where their hands rest against the glass, my hands aligning with theirs, though I can’t feel their heat. The barrier is thick and cold against my palms.

The bond is screaming in agony when I get to Weller. Can’t touch him, can’t smell him. I linger there as we all process this new version of torment.

Weller finally speaks. “Bianca.” His voice breaks on my name. “Why are you wearing a collar?”

I reach up to touch the metal band around my neck. “It’s nothing.”

“That’s not nothing,” Tristan snaps, his eyes narrowing. “That’s a fucking shock collar. We’re well acquainted.”

“What’s going on?” Owen glances around like he’s trying to figure out a way in. His fist clenches and unclenches at his side. “Why are you still here? Why can’t we touch you?”

Tristan’s voice overlaps Owen’s, loaded with suspicion. “Why’d they cut us loose? There’s no way they let us walk away from her without a reason.”

I’m still trying to form an answer.

Freddie presses his forehead to the glass, and I move to him, pressing my forehead against his. “Hey, Sunshine, you look good.”

He laughs like that’s absurd but immediately cuts himself off. “B, why are you here? Is he hurting you?”