14. Bianca
BIANCA
The penthouse doors open, and I’m still slung over Owen’s shoulder, thrashing and wiggling like a feral cat caught in a trap. He doesn’t seem to notice my struggles; his grip on my thighs unwavering as he strides into the room.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across one wall, showing the glittering city below. Leather furniture that looks costly dominates the space, gleaming in the soft lighting. Abstract art that screams money and zero personality hangs on walls too clean to ever know fingerprints.
Everything’s pristine… and frankly, unsettling.
This isn’t a home. It feels like a museum.
I hate it.
Strangest of all, it smells like absolutely nothing. No alpha or omega scents, no food smells, no signs of life.
Just a blank, scentless void that makes my insides twist uncomfortably.
“Why the hell is everyone covered in blood?” Freddie shoots up from one of those ridiculously expensive-looking couches, his golden curls catching the light as he moves.
His face drains of color, cheeks hollowing.
Those green eyes that always reminded me of summer are darting over every inch of me, cataloging, searching. “Are you okay, Bianca?”
I can’t help but fucking laugh.
The sound bursts out, harsh and jagged, scraping my throat raw. Can’t stop. The question is so absurd, so perfectly Freddie, that my ribs ache with the force of it.
“Am I okay?” I gasp between fits. “These assholes kidnapped me, Freddie. I’m fantastic.”
“Put her down,” Weller says from across the room, his words slicing through the air.
He’s standing by floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the city, not a single wrinkle in his white shirt despite the felony his pack just committed.
His jaw is locked tight enough to crack teeth, muscles coiled beneath that perfect exterior.
Playing the civilized alpha while his men do the dirty work. Nice .
Owen gestures to his and Tristan’s bloodied clothes and various injuries. “Have you looked at us, Weller? Your precious omega turned us into chew toys.”
Your precious omega . The words sink into my skin like hooks. I get all knotted up inside, warmth spreading over my skin. My stupid body doesn’t understand that they’re not mine anymore. They will never be mine.
“Now.”
The word cuts through everything else. One syllable carrying enough authority to make the air vibrate. Owen resists for only a moment more before he sets me on my feet.
I’m free.
Time to redecorate.
The crystal vase on the console table is the first to go. I sweep it off with one arm, the cool glass smooth against my palm before it flies. It explodes against the marble floor in a satisfying symphony of destruction.
I tense, waiting for hands to grab me, for someone to tell me to stop, but none of them move. None of them flinch.
Interesting .
I pick up some hideous sculpture next—all smooth curves and no soul. It’s cold and lifeless. My eyes meet Weller’s before I let it slip through my fingers.
The sound of it breaking sends a jolt of vicious pleasure through me.
A muscle jumps in Weller’s jaw, the tiny movement betraying the iron control he’s exerting. No reaction other than that tiny tell that says I’m getting under his perfect skin.
Good. I want to shatter his composure like he shattered my heart.
“Feeling better?” Tristan asks. He’s leaning against the kitchen island with his weight on his elbows, head tilted like I’m the most fascinating thing he’s seen in years.
“Not even close.”
I relieve the stuffy room of several more pieces without even looking at them.
I spy a crystal fruit bowl on the island by the kitchen.
I toy with it for a moment, like a cat might, before pushing it off the edge.
Breaking shit is therapeutic, I have to admit.
Looking back at the trail I left behind, I know Weller’s losing his shit over the chaos.
His fingers are curling and uncurling like they’re itching to clean it up.
“Where is your ankle biter anyway?”
The temperature seems to drop ten degrees, and their faces harden simultaneously.
“Europe,” Weller answers. “Medical convention with her father.”
“How long is she gone?”
“Less than a week.”
My lips curl back from my teeth. They’re spending their time away from their mate hassling another woman. How romantic.
“Trouble in paradise? What will Whitney think about you kidnapping me while she’s away?”
They don’t need to answer for me to know Whitney will crash out.
I move into the kitchen and begin opening cabinets.
Behind me, Tristan walks in and starts rummaging through the pantry. The microwave beeps.
“Anyone else want popcorn?” he snickers.
I hold my arm out straight and drop the mug. Ceramic fragments explode across the floor, skittering toward his feet.
“Could you not have waited until I left the kitchen?” Tristan asks.
“I saw an opportunity and took it.”
His smile is slow, wicked. It starts at one corner of his mouth, spreading until dimples appear and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Well played, sweetheart.”
The words hit me wrong. They crawl under my skin and nest there. Possessive. Familiar. Like I belong… and I don’t.
More mugs beckon me from the cabinet. They have various designs and wording on them. One has a science joke. Another shows a beach I’ve never visited. I don’t bother to look closely before grabbing another.
“Ah, that’s my favorite—” Freddie starts, his voice catching on the last word.
I drop it. It breaks with a higher pitch than the others, almost musical. I watch him wince as his shoulders curl inward, his fingers twitching at his sides.
“Oops.” I pick up the next one. “Sometimes our favorite things don’t last forever.”
The symbolism isn’t lost on anyone.
Tristan chuckles through a mouthful of popcorn. I blink, floored at the audacity. “Savage.”
They’re all staring at me like I’m putting on a show. Not angry about the destruction. Not trying to stop me. Just... watching. Waiting. Their eyes follow my every movement.
It’s unnerving as hell. I expected… some kind of reaction. Not this calm acceptance.
I grab a knife from the block sitting on the counter. The handle fits my palm like it was made for me. The blade catches light along its edge, nice and sharp.
“Should I put the finishing touches on your bedrooms next?” I head down the hallway, trailing the knife along pristine walls. The blade scrapes paint, leaving a thin scar in the perfection. “See where the magic happens?”
The master bedroom is all dark wood and floor-to-ceiling windows, the bed large enough for orgies. Dark sheets pulled taut across the mattress, not a wrinkle in sight. The city sprawls below.
They stand in the large hall, watching me. Four statues breathing in unison.
“This is where you fuck her?” I turn back to them. “Nice.”
“Never here,” Owen says, with a disgusted look on his face.
My fingers twitch around the handle of the knife at the suggestion that they’re still fucking her somewhere, even if it’s not in this particular spot. The blade trembles in my grip, hungry to inflict pain.
His tone makes me pause, though. He makes it sound like the thought physically sickens him. That’s... unexpected. They’re bonded. I don’t understand.
“Here’s how this is gonna go.” I turn to face them, testing the point of the knife against my fingertip, a pinprick of pain that grounds me in reality.
“If you’ve wasted my time bringing me here for some fucked-up side piece proposition or to try and be my little buddies again, I’m leaving with trophies.
And fair warning, they won’t be ugly art sculptures. ”
Owen barks a laugh. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”
Perfect . The word sends lightning through me. My nipples tighten beneath my shirt, and my thighs squeeze together. I want to punch myself in the face for responding to them like a trained dog.
Fucking pathetic.
“Start talking.”
Weller steps forward and gestures back to the living area, the movement cautious. “Come sit down, Bianca.”
His request comes out as a plea.
“I prefer to stand.” The knife’s weight grounds me in reality. “In case I need to stab someone else.”
Freddie makes a strangled noise, and his hand rises to the back of his neck, rubbing like he’s trying to ease tension.
I move past them, standing next to the large windows while they arrange themselves around the room.
“Bianca, please. We just want to explain what happened.” His eyes plead where his words can’t reach. “What you think you saw... it wasn’t what it looked like.”
“What I think I saw?” It feels like my throat’s on fire. “I don’t think anything. I saw a recording of the four of you fuckingher .” The words taste vile. “And it looked like you were enjoying yourselves, I have to say.”
“I assure you we weren’t.” The way Weller is looking at me makes my skin prickle.
“Did Whitney say anything to you about the bond?” Weller asks, tension radiating from his shoulders beneath his perfect control.
“Why the fuck do you care?” My knuckles burn white around the knife handle.
Fight or flight washes over me, remembering my worst day, remembering the horror of seeing them with her, remembering everything I ever wanted slipping between my fingers like sand.
I push my fingertips into the spot where my scent glands lie, not scratching, not digging… not yet.
Freddie lurches forward, panic flashing across his face. “Please, don’t—” The words tear from his throat, raw and unfiltered.
Owen’s body goes rigid, Tristan’s eyes widen, and Weller takes a step toward me, hand outstretched.
I swing the knife up, pointing it at Weller’s throat first and then swinging it toward the rest of them. “Back the fuck up. All of you.” I’m proud of how firm I sound, despite the tremor running through me, the blade holding firm between us.
“Bianca, the video you saw was not consensual. None of it was.”
I begin counting silently and working to steady my breath because what the fuck is he talking about?