Page 5 of Sweet Torment

I gasp, the air rushing into my lungs so fast it hurts.

Weller.

He marked me.

Holy shit. It worked. It actually fucking worked.

Where is he? Where are the others?

Wait... where the hell am I?

I snap my eyes fully open, adrenaline finally burning through the remnants of whatever they drugged me with. White walls. White ceiling. White floor. Not a single distinguishing feature except for the bed I’m lying on. One arm restrained and the other free. My legs aren’t tied down, I realize, flexing my ankles experimentally.

The irritation around my neck grows more insistent as my awareness returns. I reach up again, fingers tracing the circumference of what can only be described as a collar. The metal is smooth, cool, and completely unyielding. My heart rate kicks up as I frantically search for a clasp, a hinge, anything… but there’s nothing. It feels like one continuous piece, as if it were forged around my neck.

I’m wearing a fucking collar.

What the hell does it do, and why am I wearing it?

My pulse pounds in my ears, each beat a thunderclap of rising anxiety.

I begin to count. What do I last remember?

Dr. Montgomery.

And then I hear it. The faintest click, like a lock disengaging.

Someone’s coming.

“Ah, Ms. Quinn, you’re awake.”

I jerk against the restraint, a strangled sound clawing its way out.

Dr. Montgomery stands at the foot of my bed, pristine in his white coat, not a single wrinkle in sight. He glances down at a tablet he’s holding, tapping something with his finger before looking back at me.

“There’s no need for dramatics, Ms. Quinn. You’re safe here.” His voice has that patronizing doctor tone that makes me want to rip his throat out. “I don’t recommend struggling. We’ll have to sedate you again, and I would like to move beyond this.”

I would laugh at his use of the word safe while I’m strapped down to a bed if I weren’t already trying to process eighty-six things at one time. How many times have I woken up? My brain feels like it’s running on a hamster wheel, spinning frantically but getting nowhere.

“How long have I been here?”

“About two weeks.”

Two fucking weeks. I search my memory for anything I can recall from that time, but there’s nothing.

My last memory is Weller.

Weller’s teeth in my neck and our bond snapping into place like a key finally finding its lock.

Then blinding hot pain.

And now… nothing but his muffled presence in the background of my mind.

Where are the alphas?

“What did you do to me?” My throat is dry, and the scrape of the words is painful. He lifts a water cup to my mouth, and I hate myself for drinking from it, but I’m too thirsty to fight it.

Weller’s presence inside me is becoming more obvious, but it feels like he’s buried under layers and layers of thick sand. Distant and muted.