17. Bianca #2
Weller just stares at me, and I can tell he’s trying to wrap his head around this while seething.
Nobody says anything for a few minutes. I can feel the weight of all the things we lost while we were apart.
“Tell us about the refuge,” Weller says calmly.
I set down my slice, wiping my hands on my napkin. “It’s... peaceful. Hidden deep in the woods where no one can find us.”
“Us?” Owen’s dark eyes sharpen.
“Thirty-three people, give or take. Mostly omegas who want to hide for whatever reason. Some betas. Never alphas. We teach each other skills, and there’s counseling. We grow our own food, live off the grid.” I shrug like it’s nothing. “It’s important work.”
“What kind of work?” Tristan leans back in his chair, studying me.
“Helping people heal. Teaching them to fight. To protect themselves.” I pick at the pizza on my plate. “Making sure they never have to be victims again. I’m lucky I found it.”
The implication hangs heavy in the air—that without the shelter I found, I might not have survived at all.
More silence. More loaded glances between them.
“I miss having my weapons,” I admit, trying to lighten the mood. “These plastic utensils feel like toys.”
Owen’s mouth curves up. “My leg would beg to differ.”
“I can do much better with the right tools.”
“I’d like to see what you can do,” he says darkly.
He sounds like he’s talking about way more than knife skills.
Before I can respond, he’s standing up and walking toward what I assume is his bedroom. He returns a few minutes later, carrying a leather sheath.
“Thought you might want this,” he says, setting it on the table in front of me.
I slide the blade free slowly, my breath catching at what I find.
My eyes widen like a kid on Christmas morning. This is one of the best gifts anyone’s ever given me.
“Maybe we should be careful with that,” Freddie says warily as he watches me test the blade’s balance.
“It’s perfect, Owen.” I test the grip, the weight, the razor-sharp edge. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Princess.”
I press the tip against my fingertip, just enough to feel the sharpness. A bead of blood wells up, bright red against my skin.
Weller’s entire body goes rigid.
“Bianca.” The word cuts through the air like a command.
I look up to find his hazel eyes locked on the drop of blood, his expression dark with anger. Like the sight of me hurting myself offends him on a fundamental level.
He can’t stand watching me bleed.
“What?” I test the blade again, another small prick.
“Do you want me to take that away from you?”
There’s a beat of silence as we look at each other.
All this time apart, and Weller still thinks he’s the boss where I am concerned.
“You can tr–” I start to say, but his expression stops me cold. The intensity in his eyes, the way his jaw is locked tight. He’s not playing games.
He’s dead serious.
I set the knife down carefully on the table, hands folding in my lap. Blood beads on my fingertip where I tested the edge, and I automatically pop it into my mouth without thinking.
The reaction is immediate. They freeze like I just stripped down to nothing.
“Good girl,” Weller murmurs, and my eyes widen at the praise. My body goes warm all over.
Tristan chuckles. “Fascinating.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it.
We finish dinner in charged silence, the air thick with tension and unspoken words.
When we move to the living room, they arrange themselves around me again.
Freddie settles on my right side of the couch, close enough that his thigh presses against mine.
Tristan claims my left, letting his knee bump mine.
Owen takes a chair but leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, while Weller settles into the chair across from us.
They’re studying me like I’m a puzzle to solve.
“There’s more we need to discuss,” Weller’s gaze locks onto mine, and my insides immediately sink at his tone.
“What now?”
The room feels like it’s closing in on itself.
Owen’s face drains of color, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard.
Tristan’s usual smirk has vanished, replaced by a hollowness.
Freddie runs a shaky hand through his hair, then does it again.
Weller’s fingers grip the arms of his chair like he’s anchoring himself against a storm.
Whatever they’re about to tell me, they’re dreading it.
They’re about to destroy me all over again.
“Here’s the deal,” Tristan sighs. “Whitney can force us to do things through the bond…”
“What kind of things?”
“Sex,” he says bluntly. “But not just that. She likes to watch us hurt each other.”
“Hurt each other how?”
“Fight. Humiliate. Degrade.” His mouth twists bitterly. “Whatever feeds her need for control.”
She turned them into her personal gladiators. My vision starts to narrow at the edges, that familiar red haze creeping in. I’ve killed people for less than this.
I stare at him, trying to process what he’s saying. “She forces you to fight each other?”
“Among other things,” Owen practically snarls.
“What other things?”
The silence stretches so long I think they’re not going to answer.
Freddie wrings his hands nervously.
“She invites others. Makes us…” He stops, swallows hard. “She likes to watch.”
They’re painting a picture so ugly I want to claw my own eyes out. “Watch what?”
“Us fucking other people.” The words come out so quietly. “Her friends.”
The room tilts sideways. Blood roars in my ears. “Who?”
“Katie, Rebecca, and Liz,” Tristan answers, his body going still beside me.
Those names hit me like individual bullets. Girls I grew up with. Girls from Whitney’s inner circle who used to come to sleepovers and braid my hair.
“What else?” My breathing is growing more shallow, and the anger inside of me is building to a peak.
Owen’s already moving, rising from his chair with his hands up like he’s approaching a wild animal. “Bianca, breathe?—”
Freddie shifts beside me on the couch, his hand hovering near my arm but not quite touching. “Hey, look at me. You’re okay.”
“Bianca.” The low timbre of Weller’s voice fills the air. “Focus on me.”
But I can’t focus on anything but punching a knife through her throat. Can’t escape the images flooding my brain of Whitney orchestrating this sick puppet show.
My whole body starts trembling, hands shaking so hard I can’t control them.
“She will die for this.”
Tristan’s fingers wrap around my wrist, warm and steady. “Easy, little bee.”
But I can’t do easy. Can’t process this level of cruelty breaking inside.
“Why?” The word comes out flat, empty, as anger too intense to tamp down eats me alive. “Why would she want her own mates to fuck other people? To hurt each other?”
Their eyes find each other across the room… wordless messages flying between them that make me uneasy.
I want blood for this, and I want it right fucking now.
Weller leans forward, holding eye contact with me. “Whitney’s interest in us stopped being about having mates a long time ago.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“She doesn’t want us,” Freddie says, his hand raking through his golden curls with enough force to hurt. “Not anymore. We’re just for show now.”
“Then what does she want?”
Owen speaks first. “To ruin us so thoroughly that you could never...” He stops, swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Never what?”
“Never want us,” Tristan finishes.
She’s been torturing them because of me.
Every bruise that’s marked their bodies, the haunted look in their eyes—she inflicted that because they chose me instead of her. Because they wanted me. Not her. My chest caves inward, lungs struggling to expand against the weight of it.
She’s the same kind of monster that sends people running for refuges… the kind of monster I know well.
The cruelty makes me want to vomit, but my fingers itch for blood payment.
“The girls… her friends. They knew what was happening?”
Owen’s head jerks up. “They knew. They enjoyed it.”
Murder flashes through my mind—clear as day, in great detail.
Katie first. Pretty, vapid Katie. Start with her fingers. One by one. Then get creative.
Rebecca next. The one who always had nasty gossip about everyone. I’d cut out her tongue first, then work my way down.
And Liz. Sweet, innocent Liz who fooled everyone with her wide-eyed act. I’d save her for last. Make her watch what happened to the others first.
“Bianca.” The sound of Weller breaks through the haze of my violent fantasy. “You’re scaring us.”
The guilt consumes me, cutting through the rage. While I was learning to survive in the mountains, building a new life, finding peace, hating them—they were here. Trapped. Suffering. Missing me .
My fault. All my fault.
“I should have come back.” The words stick to my tongue because the new reality that’s crystallizing in my head is that I abandoned them. “I should have helped you. I should have?—”
Owen scoffs. “Should have what? Taken on four powerful assholes and a doctor with unlimited resources? You were eighteen.”
“Look at me, Bianca.” The command in Weller’s tone makes my eyes snap to his automatically. His hazel gaze burns into mine, unflinching and fierce.
“We do not blame you for doing what you needed to do to protect yourself, Bianca. We don’t associate you with anything that’s happened. What could a young girl with no allies and no resources have accomplished except becoming another victim?”
But their reassurances bounce off me. I’m not buying it. The guilt has its claws in deep now, and it’s not letting go.
“It doesn’t matter.” I sound lifeless. “It’s still my fault. She’s still punishing you because of me.”
Freddie reaches toward me, then stops. “Bianca?—”
“What’s she going to do when she gets home?” I sound panicky. “When she realizes you’ve been with me? She will know. She’s not fucking stupid.”
They exchange glances, and I can see the truth in their faces. Whatever Whitney will do, it’s going to be bad.
Weller works his jaw. “We can handle whatever happens. You don’t need to worry about that.”