Page 62 of Sweet Torment

She climbed on the bike behind me, hesitant. “I’ve never been on a motorcycle before.”

“Hold on tight, Princess,” I told her, passing her my helmet. “Don’t let go.”

She gripped me tentatively, then tighter when I accelerated. I took the long route home. Every time I leaned into a turn, her arms would tighten, her chest pressing against my back. I drove slower than I’d ever driven, dragging out a ten-minute ride to thirty. All I could focus on was her thighs pressed against mine.

Then we hit that bump on Miller Road. She shifted, her hand slipping from my stomach, grabbing lower—right on my dick. I felt her freeze. Her hand against my cock, even through denim, made electricity spark throughout my entire body.

She made this little squeak and jerked back so hard we nearly wiped out. The space between us for the rest of the ride felt like the Grand Canyon.

When we pulled up to her house, her cheeks were flushed pink. She practically jumped off the bike, refusing to look at me.

“You okay?” I asked, killing the engine.

“Fine! I’m fine.” Her voice was higher than normal. She finally met my eyes, and the wild, curious look there knocked the breath out of me. I stepped toward her. She didn’t move. I leaned in to help her with the helmet, and her mouth parted, like she was waiting for me to kiss her. Then Winston’s car turned into the driveway.

“Night, Owen. Thanks for the ride.” I watched her sprint up the steps until the front door slammed behind her.

When I got home, I knew something was wrong. I could hear my father’s voice from the street, that particular pitch that meant someone was bleeding or crying. My mother’s soft pleading filtered through the walls. I found them in the kitchen. He had her backed against the counter, his finger jabbing into her chest.

“Touch her again and I’ll break your fucking arm,” I said, stepping between them.

My father’s eyes narrowed. “This doesn’t concern you, son.” The way he said “son” made it sound like “disappointment.”

“It concerns me.” I straightened to my full height. We both knew I could take him.

He backed off. My mother slipped away, that vacant look settling into her eyes. I listened for Emma as I climbed the stairs. The soft, hiccuping sobs from behind her door made my chest ache.

“Em, it’s me. Open up.”

The lock clicked. Her face was blotchy, her eyes swollen. Fourteen years old and already carrying the weight of our father’s cruelty.

“He said he’s compiling a list of alphas to set me up with,” she wiped tears from her face. “But that I need to lose thirty pounds first, or my options won’t be as good.” Her voice cracked. “Owen—I don’t want someone like him.”

I pulled her into a hug. “You’re perfect, Em. And I won’t let him do that to you.”

I stayed in her room until she fell asleep, thinking about Bianca. How clean and safe her house always felt compared to the minefield of mine. That night, I lay in bed, my hand wrapped around myself, imagining a different ending where Winston never showed up. Where I pressed my lips against Bianca’s and showed her how to touch me for real.

I came so hard I bit through my lip, tasting copper. Bianca was the only light cutting through the shit.

When she disappeared, it felt like a living death. Those years without her—I was fucking lost. So while I get she wants space... I’m afraid I can’t give her that. I’ve had all the space I can take.

I throw on clothes and head back out to hunt her down. Tristan and Freddie are standing where I last saw Bianca, staring at the portrait above the fireplace.

“Holy shit,” I breathe as I take it in.

An entire set of knives is protruding from Whitney.

I laugh. I can’t help it. It bubbles up from somewhere deep. Then Tristan snorts, and Freddie’s shoulders start shaking, and suddenly we’re all howling like madmen in this house of horrors, bent double with tears streaming down our faces.

Weller comes up behind us. The laughter dies in my throat when I see his expression. He’s too worried about her to find this amusing—too serious, too Weller.

We’re all so fucking damaged it’s not funny, but I can’t help it. I wipe tears from my eyes, my shoulder aching.

“Girl’s got perfect aim,” Tristan says, reaching up to wiggle one of the knives. It’s deeply embedded.

Freddie is the first to recover. “How do we help her? It can’t be easy being here. It still smells like Whitney.” He wrinkles his nose.

“She needs cuddles and lots of dick,” Tristan says immediately, dead serious. “We need to wear her out, get her out of her head. Orgasms will be therapeutic for all of us. And good for the bonds.” He nods sagely. “It’s science.”