Page 4 of Savage Surrender

“Owen. Look at me.”

His eyes find mine. He’s conscious. He’s breathing. The muscles in his jaw jump under my palms.

The guard crouches beside us. “All of you need to get the fuck in the vehicle. Now. Or I shock him until he stops moving.”

We walk toward the SUVs at the edge of the park.

Hale gestures to the man holding his wrist. “Tommy, head back and get that looked at. You’re done for the day.” He points at a thick-necked guard from the second vehicle. “Ellis, you’ve got the omega and Mr. Dashwood.”

The guards force us into two cars. Owen, Tristan, and Freddie are pushed into one with Hale and two others. Weller and I are herded into the second SUV.

The doors slam and the SUVs pull away in opposite directions.

I twist in my seat and watch the other car disappear.

My body remembers what separation feels like. The omega under my skin starts clawing for the car vanishing behind us, and I let my forehead rest against the window glass and watch until there’s nothing left to watch.

2

BIANCA

The leather backseat is cold beneath my legs. Weller sits beside me with his zip-tied hands loose in his lap and his shoulders square while Ellis checks the rearview mirror every few seconds, as if he’s waiting for one of us to attack him. I’m shaking. I don’t remember when it started, and pressing my hands flat against my thighs does nothing to stop it. Ellis’s sweat is strong enough to smell from the backseat.

Weller doesn’t touch me or look at me, so I count the blocks instead. Three. Four. We’re heading back to the estate, back to that locked house, while Owen wears a collar and the others sit trapped in another car. My hands won’t stop shaking. I press them flat against my thighs. Still shaking.

“Take Sycamore Lane next,” Weller says pleasantly.

Ellis’s gaze snaps to the mirror. “Sir?”

“Sycamore Lane. Next left.”

“I have orders to return you both to⁠—”

Weller leans forward and loops his bound arms over Ellis’s head. The zip tie catches across his throat. Weller jerks back, and the SUV swerves. Ellis makes a wet, strangled noise. One hand claws at Weller’s sleeve while the other wrenches the wheel toward the shoulder. We bounce half off the road and stop with gravel spraying beneath the tires.

“Breathe,” Weller says softly. He eases the pressure enough to let Ellis drag in a breath. “Good. Sycamore Lane. Next left.”

Ellis’s face is red from his jaw to his collar. Tears stream from his eyes. “I can’t⁠—”

Weller yanks his bound wrists back for one warning second. “Sycamore Lane,” he repeats, as if Ellis is a waiter who keeps getting his order wrong.

The SUV pulls back onto the road. The turn signal clicks, and Ellis makes the next left with Weller’s bound wrists still braced against his throat. Radios erupt around us, static and voices from the other SUV, from dispatch, from several confused people trying to figure out why we’ve left the route. Ellis reaches for his radio with a shaking hand.

“Don’t,” Weller says. The hand drops.

We drive three blocks in silence. Sprinklers are running on half the lawns we pass. Weller’s expression never changes, even when Ellis’s breath catches wetly around the restraint.

Ellis stops in front of my parents’ house and puts the SUV in park. He keeps both hands on the wheel.

“Remove these,” Weller barks, and Ellis cuts the plastic holding his wrists together. Once he’s released, he opens the door and then gets out.

I stay in the backseat, staring at the angry red stripe rising above Ellis’s collar.

“Bianca,” Weller says quietly from outside, holding his hand out to me.

I place my palm in his. All I can think about is how warm it is when I climb out.

Winston is already on the porch when we reach the steps, balanced on his crutches. I suppose Weller texted him to meet us here, but he didn’t mention it. Winston’s face lights up when he sees me, then he notices Weller behind me and the smile slips.