Page 2 of Sweet Torment

It’s less than what he deserves.

“Gotta take a piss,” Rodney announces, oblivious to the murder fantasy playing out in my head. “Don’t go anywhere, beautiful.”

“Bianca. Now.” Ezra’s voice startles me out of my thoughts.

The second Rodney stumbles toward the bathroom, I pull the small vial from my bra and dispense the clear liquid into his beer in one smooth motion. It takes less than ten minutes to start working—just enough time to get him outside and away from witnesses.

My fingers move to my necklace before I consciously decide to act. I disconnect the body cam, remove the earpiece, and drop both into my purse.

I’m sorry, Ezra.

But some alphas don’t deserve to breathe the same air as their victims.

When Rodney returns, his fly is half-zipped and his hands are still wet. He grabs his beer and chugs the rest like he’s dying of thirst.

Good boy. Drink it all down.

“Let’s get out of here, baby. I know a place.”

Me too, Rodney. Me too.

The only place you’re going is hell.

I stand, letting him wrap his arm around my waist as I feign tipsiness from the drink I’ve barely touched. Between the alcohol he’s consumed and the drug now entering his bloodstream, his movements are becoming sluggish and uncoordinated. He blinks slowly, as if his eyelids have suddenly gained weight, as we head toward the door.

I don’t turn toward the parking lot where Ezra and Megan wait in the van. Instead, I go left, toward the trees, toward the sound of rushing water that has been calling to me since we arrived. The guilt eats at me. Here I am, breaking another promise. But Stacy’s lying in a hospital bed while this piece of shit is already hunting for his next victim.

“Where are we going?” Rodney slurs, his heavy body leaning increasingly on me for support.

“Somewhere private,” I murmur, guiding him down the trail.

The path is empty, shrouded in darkness—perfect for what I have planned. No cameras. No witnesses. Just justice.

The river sounds like applause when we reach it. Like it’s been waiting for this offering all night.

Rodney shoves me against a pine tree, the bark biting into my back through the thin fabric of my dress. His breath is hot and wrong against my neck as he presses his body against mine. “You smell weird for an omega.”

The artificial omega scent I’m using is decent enough to lure in dumb-as-fuck alphas, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the real thing. I may look like an omega tonight, but I smell like nothing, taste like nothing... am nothing. A ghost. A weapon.

I cringe inwardly, remembering how desperate I used to be for alpha validation. Well… their validation. But it’s fine. I’m totally over it. I’ve found other uses for myself.

Much more satisfying uses than playing house with four assholes.

“And you talk too much,” I reply, then push him hard toward the river. He loses his balance easily, the drug making his reactions slow and clumsy. He trips, barely catching himself before hitting the ground.

“What the fuck, you bitch⁠—”

I shove him again, harder this time, and he goes down on the slick rocks at the river’s edge, his head making a satisfying crack against the stone. Before he can recover, I’m on him, knees pinning his chest, both hands forcing his head under the black water.

He fights harder than I expected. Even with the drugs and alcohol in his system, he’s still an alpha, still stronger than me. His nails rake down my arms, tearing the skin in long, bloody furrows. Shit. Oh well, it’s too late to worry about DNA. His body bucks and thrashes beneath me, trying to throw me off. Water splashes up, soaking my dress, my face, my hair. The wig slips sideways, and I don’t bother fixing it.

I silently pray the river will wash away any evidence, that this will look like the drunken slip and fall I’m staging it to be. But I don’t dwell on it. I’m fully committed, regardless of the outcome. I’m fully prepared to take all the blame.

I count in my head the way Ezra taught me during those first months at the refuge, when panic attacks left me hyperventilating and dizzy. Now I use his technique to stay calm while I hold this monster underwater. He’d probably hate to know I’ve repurposed his coping mechanism for murder.

Rodney’s struggles are weakening, his hands slipping from my bloody arms to slap weakly at the water, at my legs, at nothing.

I focus on Stacy’s face, on the purple fingerprints around her throat, on the sixteen-year-old sister who’s now safe from becoming his next target.