Page 20 of Sweet Torment

“Owen, stop!” Weller commands, but Owen is a runaway train.

He backs up to charge again, and Bianca drops. Her body hits the floor, convulsing. Her collar was used to punish Owen.

A cold, silent rage freezes me from the inside out. My only thought is that it’s him doing this to her.

“NO!” Weller pounds on the glass.

Freddie’s shouting at Owen. Owen’s frozen, face white with horror.

And the reality slams into me. She is the new leash. And Owen just yanked it tight.

The door behind us bursts open. Guards flood in.

Bianca’s eyes flutter open from the floor, finding Weller’s through the glass. She shakily pulls her shirt to the side, showing him his mark on her.

“Come back to me, Bianca.” Weller speaks in a low, firm tone, but I can tell he is livid beyond belief as he delivers it like an alpha command, as if he can will her to endure whatever comes next with these words.

“Time’s up,” a guard says, grabbing Owen, who is still staring at Bianca, looking completely stricken.

They drag us out. I don’t resist. Fighting now is a stupid move that will only get her hurt more.

All we can do now is regroup and find a way to bring her home, because over my dead body is anyone else touching our omega.

7

BIANCA

Roses.

The horrid scent begins to pull me from sleep, like petals are being crammed down my throat. I’ve had this nightmare before.

Giggles reach my ears. Soft, feminine, and sickly sweet. Multiple voices whisper in the dark.

But then I catch it—beneath the roses, something else drifts into my senses. Teakwood and bergamot.

Weller.

My brain sharpens instantly.

I jerk awake to hands on my wrists. Bone-deep panic claws its way up my throat. A knee jams my thigh to the mattress, and someone is straddling my stomach. I buck upward, trying to throw them off, but there’s too much weight. I can’t move.

I’m trapped.

Whitney came to visit me.

“Hold her legs, Katie!” she barks.

Of course. Her three bitches are here, too.

“Surprise, B.” Whitney’s face looms close, her breath hot and sour as she breathes in my face. She’s been drinking. Her lipstick is smeared and makes her look like a deranged clown. “Miss me?”

I don’t answer as I test their grip. Too tight. Something rough scrapes against my wrist—rope. My world narrows to the scrape of the fiber against my skin and the feel of their hands all over me. They’re trying to tie me up, but their drunk, uncoordinated movements mean they can’t get it right. The rope rubs and burns, leaving a raw, angry line against my pulse point.

Fuck no.

Nobody ties me down. The panic is a wild animal in my chest. I thrash hard, getting one arm free, and my fist connects with someone’s jaw. A satisfying yelp from Liz, but it costs me as Rebecca’s fist slams into my cheek. A sharp, ringing sound fills my left ear. My teeth cut into the inside of my mouth, and the coppery taste of my own blood floods my tongue.

Whitney is wearing something of Weller’s. The scent is faded, but it’s his and it’s on her. It’s like a switch flips in my head, from survival to something far colder and deadlier.