Page 98 of Sweet Torment

“Good morning! You must be Bianca Quinn,” she chirps, tapping away at her computer. “Dr. Montgomery is running just a few minutes behind. Can I get either of you something to drink while you wait?”

“No,” I say, perhaps too sharply.

“We’re fine, thank you,” Tristan adds, guiding me toward a seat.

I’m not sure how to address the photo we found of Dr. Montgomery, my mom, and me. Do I call him out and expose that I’m digging around for answers? Do I ask my mom more questions first? I’m undecided on how to proceed. It’s unsettling to know that the man who destroyed my life has known me since I was born. The thought makes my skin crawl. When did he start tinkering and playing God? When did I become his subject? Was I even out of the womb yet?

There are several other women in the waiting room, and I’m suddenly wondering if he’s ever done anything to them they didn’t know about. If they’re walking around with altered biology, with chemical time bombs in their blood, with destinies that were decided in a lab. They don’t appear to be upset or resistant in any way, but neither am I. Dr. Montgomery has a way of making really fucked-up shit appear normal.

Tristan picks up a magazine and starts flipping through it, but I can tell he’s not reading a word. His eyes scan the same page over and over, and his knee bounces slightly.

A woman opens the door and calls my name. “Ms. Quinn? We’re ready for you.”

Tristan’s hand tightens on mine for a brief moment before he lets go. “I’ll be right here,” he says. “Yell if you need me. I’ll come for you.”

I’m taken to an exam room where she takes down my vitals and stats. I pee in a cup, and she takes a blood sample. With a bright smile, she tells me the doctor will be in shortly. Paper crinkles beneath me as I sit on the examination table and begin swinging my legs. My life is too fucking weird.

The door opens, and he comes in, looks me over, and... smiles. I take the time to really look at him and imagine him with my mother. He’s not a bad-looking man, and he doesn’t appear outwardly sinister. It’s what makes him more horrifying. A tall beta with light-colored hair, glasses that make him appear scholarly, and, as usual, a pristine white lab coat. He could be anyone’s family doctor. The monster hiding in plain sight.

“How are you today, Ms. Quinn?” His voice is warm and calm.

“Spectacular.” I infuse the word with as much sarcasm as I can muster.

“Wonderful. Well, as I suspected, you aren’t pregnant. You were given birth control before the trial, and it was a short, stressful heat, so this is not surprising information.” The birth control tidbit would’ve been nice to know before I worked myself up over it. I guess he didn’t want the Havershams knocking me up if they were successful.

“How have things been going at home with your new mates?”

“As good as they can living in a prison where our every private moment is recorded and jerked off to by⁠—”

“Ms. Quinn, I assure you it’s all very professional.” He cuts me off with a raised hand. “I don’t personally watch the recordings. Notes are taken by my trusted team of data analysts, who are all women, by the way. It’s all very straightforward and scientific. It’s not to invade your privacy. It’s merely to study behavior.”

Actually, that is slightly reassuring. The thought of him observing our intimate moments made me sick. I consider asking him about the yacht news story, but I’m not sure I should. Remember how I killed your daughter and her friends? Yeah. Probably not the best conversation starter with the man who holds my fate in his hands.

He’s busy tapping away on his tablet and then says he wants to do a physical exam. It only takes a few minutes for him to look over my injuries and say, “Everything looks like it’s healing properly.”

“Great.”

“I’m adding more guards to the rotation for the safety of you and your mates.”

My stomach hits the floor. More guards means more eyes, more restrictions. “That seems like overkill.”

“Maybe. The Havershams are still a concern, and I’d rather be safe than sorry.” His fingers tap against his tablet, recording God knows what.

“I thought they accepted a deal?”

“They did; however, losing a child, or three, can make you quite irrational. No need to worry; just some extra precautions,” says the man who just lost a daughter.

“As you may be aware, the fathers of your mates are none too happy about this situation. They have been badgering me about how to resolve this.”

Why is he telling me this? “You’re not going to touch the bonds, right?” My voice sounds small, and I hate the fear it’s laced with.

“No, nothing like that. Their fathers would like to use samples to produce their next heirs in a lab setting.”

My jaw literally drops. “What are you talking about? What samples?”

“It is my understanding Whitney was working with them before her death. Her eggs have been collected along with what is needed from the boys.”

“No.” I fist my hand and feel my nails cut into my palm, the sharp pain grounding me as rage begins to consume me. “That is not happening! What the hell is wrong with you people?” The thought of Whitney’s children—fathered by my alphas—makes me queasy.