Page 65 of Sweet Torment

"Bianca." His voice drops lower, an edge of alpha command slipping in. "I can smell your distress from here. Open the door, or I'm coming in."

I don't answer. Maybe if I stay silent long enough, he'll decide I'm not worth the trouble and walk away. The lock clicks. So much for my fortress of solitude.

Freddie steps in, damp hair and bare legs, wearing just boxers and a t-shirt that clings to his still-wet skin in a way that makes my throat go dry. His eyes sweep over me, the bubbles, my red-rimmed eyes, and his face does something complicated. Not pity, thank fuck. Understanding. He grabs a towel from the rack and sits cross-legged on the floor beside the tub. For a few moments, there is silence, weighted with all the years and blood between us.

His fingers find my hair, gently touching the ends of what is left. "Who did it?"

"Rebecca." The name tastes bitter. I realize there's a lot we haven't discussed yet.

His hands still for a beat before resuming their gentle exploration. "Can I wash it for you?"

"Yes." The word comes out small, vulnerable in a way that makes me want to snatch it back.

"You look good with short hair." His cheeks flush pink. "I mean, I loved your long hair, but... you'd look beautiful no matter what."

The compliment lands between us, awkward and sincere. Five years ago, I would have rolled my eyes. Now I just feel raw. "Thanks, Freddie."

He reaches for the shampoo and works it through my hair with careful fingers, massaging my scalp with just the right pressure. I breathe in the mint scent greedily. When he rinses my hair, his hands cup the back of my neck, supporting me as I lean back. He applies conditioner next, his fingers working through the tangles with infinite patience. Then he picks up a washcloth. "Lift your arms."

I comply without argument. He washes me with the same gentle thoroughness. It's not sexual, even though my nipples harden and goosebumps rise on my skin. He doesn't comment on it, though his eyes darken when he notices. My omega brain whines at the restraint, wanting more. The rest of me is pathetically grateful for this simple kindness.

When he's done, he helps me stand and wraps me in a towel big enough to be a blanket. He dries me with the same care, his hands firm but gentle. I find myself swaying toward him, drawn by his warmth and the honey-cedar scent that's all him.

"You smell so fucking good," he murmurs, leaning in to breathe against my neck. His body presses against mine. "So sweet and warm." His hands smooth over my arms, my neck, my back. Not grabbing, just touching. He’s scent-marking me.

"Sorry," he says, catching himself. "We're all going to want to do that. It's⁠—"

"You need me to smell like you?" I ask, even though I already know the answer. I can feel it through the bond, this primal urge he's barely containing.

"Yeah. I really do."

The omega in me doesn't mind. Being claimed, even in this small way, feels right. The rational part of me knows I should be freaked out by how natural this feels, but I'm too exhausted to fight it.

He's brought clothes with him, leggings and a sweatshirt, tags still on. Thank God, because there's no way in hell I'm wearing Whitney's clothes. I let him dress me because I can tell it means something to him. His hands on me feel like the only thing keeping me from floating away into a thousand broken pieces. When he's done, he yanks me into his chest and hugs me tight. All I can feel, smell, and hear is him. His heartbeat against my ear. His scent filling my lungs. His warmth seeping into my bones.

And then I break.

The sobs come out harsh and ugly, tearing through me. At first, he just lets me cry, stroking my hair, murmuring nonsense—promises that everything will be okay. He can't possibly know that. But it still feels nice.

"This is all so messed up, Freddie. I'm fucked up." The words spill out between sobs, messy and raw. "I don't know how to be an omega. After you guys bonded with Whitney—I thought that part of my life was over for good. I'm kind of mean now. I'm bitchy. I don't know how to be a nice girl anymore."

"We're all fucked up now, bumblebee." The old nickname makes fresh tears spring to my eyes. "And you're perfect just the way you are. No one needs you to be some idea of an omega. We want you⁠—"

"I'm sorry for being mean to you, Freddie. You don't deserve it," I cut him off, needing to say this before I lose my nerve. "You're all in my head now, and it's so overwhelming. I can feel everything you feel, and it's like drowning in someone else's emotions."

"I know. You don't need to be sorry." His fingers card through my hair. "We can all feel you too, you know. All that pain and anger you're carrying."

"I don't want to be like her." My voice breaks on the confession. "I don't want to hurt you. But I think I will."

"You are nothing like her, Bianca." The intensity in his voice makes me look up at him. His eyes are fierce, certain. "Whitney was a horrible person. You're not. It’s not fair what happened to you."

His arms feel so good around me. I snuggle in closer and breathe him in. This man is mine now—all of them are—and I need to take better care of them. They've been through hell too. Five years of being bound to a woman who tortured them in ways I may never fully comprehend. Eventually, the tears stop. I feel empty and wrung out.

"Come on," he says, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "Let's go eat some real food."

I want to say I'm not hungry, but then my stomach growls so loudly it's practically speaking in full sentences. When was the last time I actually ate something?

As we walk down the stairs, I smell pizza, and my mouth waters instantly. My body suddenly remembers it needs fuel to keep going, to keep fighting. To keep fucking…