24. Weller
WELLER
I can’t focus on a single fucking word Alexander Barrett is saying.
My hands rest flat against the polished conference table, fingers spread wide against cool mahogany. Professional. Controlled. The perfect image of an alpha conducting business. But every cell in my body hums with thoughts of her.
Barrett’s been in a mood since dawn. His VP texted in sick at five AM. No warning. No materials for her morning presentation. No backup plan. We spent three hours scrambling to piece together something passable for the board meeting, which Barrett clearly blames on “unprofessional behavior.”
“Yesterday at lunch she was fine,” he’d muttered while we reorganized presentation decks. “Strategy discussions for the merger. Not a single indication of illness.”
Now, five hours later, his jaw still twitches as he works through quarterly projections.
“...indicating a fifteen percent increase in the northeastern markets...”
I nod at appropriate intervals. Provide expected responses.
But my mind stays locked on that hotel suite.
The weight of Bianca’s body against my chest. The soft sounds she made when I carried her to the bathroom.
How she felt small and perfectly right in my arms, trusting me to take care of her when she was boneless and sated.
How her eyes looked when we told her we had to leave.
Angry. Hurt. Then, completely blank.
Barrett’s phone pings. He checks it under the table, and his face transforms with controlled anger.
“Excuse me, gentlemen.” His voice is tight as he rises from his chair. “I need a moment to address this.”
He steps away from the table, but not far enough that we cannot hear fragments. “Resignation? Via email? Completely unacceptable.”
I exchange glances with the others. Owen raises an eyebrow, a question I understand immediately. Tristan’s expression stays neutral, but I catch the slight narrowing of his eyes. His tells are subtle but unmistakable after years of friendship. And he’s watching his father with particular intensity.
Barrett returns, face red with anger. “Rebecca has resigned, effective immediately.”
“That’s sudden,” Tristan observes, his voice carefully neutral when addressing his father.
“It’s completely unprofessional,” Barrett responds sharply. “Three years with the company and she resigns through an email? After calling in sick this morning without arranging coverage for her presentation?”
The first prickle of unease crawls up my spine. Rebecca Wells. Whitney’s friend.
One of the women who participated in our unbearable existence.
Could Bianca have confronted her? The thought should be ridiculous. Our sweet omega tracking down Whitney’s friends like some kind of avenging angel.
Except she’s alluded to what she’s capable of when someone threatens her.
“Maybe the illness is serious,” Freddie offers.
Barrett doesn’t respond. His expression darkens further, jaw clenching as he grips the table edge. He looks like he wants to strangle Rebecca with his bare hands.
The meeting continues for another twenty minutes before Barrett finally concedes defeat, too distracted by her sudden departure to maintain focus on quarterly projections.
“This meeting is done,” he says, gathering documents. “I need to go do damage control.”
The moment Barrett exits, Owen leans forward. “Okay, am I the only one who thinks this is fucking weird?”
Tristan doesn’t respond verbally. Instead, he immediately pulls out his laptop and begins typing rapidly.
“What are you doing?” Freddie asks.
“Checking on Rebecca,” Tristan replies, eyes fixed on his screen. “She bolts right after we tell Bianca what they did to us? That’s not coincidence.”
My heart rate spikes. So I’m not the only one making that connection.
“You don’t seriously think...” Freddie starts, then trails off.
“I’m not thinking anything yet,” Tristan says, fingers flying across keys. “Just doing what I do best. Sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“And how exactly are you doing that?” I ask, moving closer to see his screen.
Tristan glances up with a sharp smile. “You forget what I can do with computers.”
I stand behind him as multiple screens appear. Security protocols, authentication credentials, firewalls being methodically dismantled.
“Wait, I have something better,” Tristan says, clicking through folders. “Remember last year when I found out my father was sleeping with Rebecca?”
“Hard to forget,” Owen says, leaning closer. “You were ready to destroy him over it.”
“I got access to her doorbell camera,” Tristan continues, pulling up a new window. “Needed to see how often he was visiting. Wanted proof for my mother, but never showed her. Never deleted the connection either.”
“Shit,” Freddie whispers.
“Here we go,” Tristan says. He scrolls through footage. “This is from yesterday afternoon.”
The screen flickers to life. Seconds tick by in silence, broken only by our collective breathing. Then a figure appears at the edge of the frame. Black clothes, blonde hair, familiar in a way that makes my throat close up.
The massive bouquet should look innocent. Instead, watching her carry it feels like watching someone deliver a funeral arrangement to the living.
“Holy shit,” Owen breathes. “Is that...”
My throat closes up completely. Because there she is.
“Bianca,” I manage.
On screen, she rings the bell. Katie answers, looking confused and then elated. The camera doesn’t capture audio, but we can see Katie doesn’t recognize Bianca at first. They exchange words, and then Katie steps aside, inviting Bianca inside without hesitation.
“Fuck,” Freddie whispers.
None of us say anything for a beat.
Owen’s frozen in that dangerous way that makes people cross streets. Freddie won’t stop running his hands through his hair… his scent’s gone all wrong, stress bleeding through the usual warmth. And Tristan’s just staring at the screen like Christmas came early.
We’re feeding off each other’s emotions, pack instincts amplifying until the conference room reeks of alpha aggression with nowhere to go.
“She went to their house,” Owen finally says, his voice dropping to a growl. “After we told her everything.”
“We know she did something,” Freddie says quietly, his voice strained. “Her knuckles were split open last night.”
The thought that she’d deliberately sought out violence… for us… makes my chest tighten with something between pride and horror.
“And now Rebecca’s ill. Then resigns,” Tristan adds, leaning back in his chair. His expression stays unreadable, but tension coils in his shoulders like a predator ready to strike.
“The question is how far she went,” I say, my pulse quickening.
“Far enough to make Rebecca risk Barrett’s wrath by resigning without notice,” Owen points out. “She’s scared.”
“She definitely went after the others too,” Freddie says, his leg bouncing under the table. “Katie and Liz. Fuck, when Whitney finds out...”
“We’ll worry about that after we talk to Bianca,” I say, though my mind is already calculating contingencies.
Tristan’s hands hover over the keyboard. “Want me to see what I can find?”
Part of me doesn’t want to know the full extent of what our fierce little omega is capable of. But I nod anyway. “Do it.”
I pull out my phone and dial. Straight to voicemail. I try again. Same result.
“She’s not answering.”
“Let’s go find her,” Owen snarls, his scent spiking with something dark and possessive.
He shoves back from the table hard enough to send his chair skittering across marble, muscles coiled like he’s ready to hunt.
“She’s out there hunting the bitches who touched us, and we’re sitting here talking about it like it’s a fucking strategy meeting. ”
The need to get eyes on her rolls off him in waves.
Years of enduring whatever Whitney and her friends wanted to do to us. And our omega comes back and starts evening the score in a matter of days.
“That’s our girl,” Tristan says, his voice pitched between admiration and madness.
All three of us turn to stare at him. He’s still watching the screen, but his smile has gone razor-sharp.
“She walked up to their fucking door with flowers. Our spirited little omega delivering revenge wrapped in roses.”
“That’s not the point,” I say, though heat spreads through my chest at his words.
“Look at her,” Tristan continues, his eyes bright with something unhinged. “She’s perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect. God, I want to spank her for putting herself in danger and worship her at the same time.” His laugh is low and dangerous.
“She could have gotten herself killed,” Freddie chokes out, panic bleeding into his scent. “They could have hurt her, they could have?—”
“There’s going to be fallout,” I cut in, mind racing. “Whitney will connect the dots. The police might get involved. We don’t know what kind of mess she’s made.”
“I need to get my hands on her,” Owen snarls, every muscle coiled tight. “Right fucking now.” He stops, jaw working. “I need to shake her until she promises never to do something this dangerous again. Then I need to fuck her until she can’t walk, let alone get into any more trouble.”
Freddie makes a strangled sound, his scent spiking with arousal and panic in equal measure. Tristan’s grin turns predatory, eyes going dark with approval. And me? My cock hardens despite everything, because Owen just said what we’re all thinking.
“She’s going to be the death of us,” Tristan murmurs, but he’s still grinning like he wouldn’t have it any other way.
My pulse throbs against my collar while something primal and alpha roars approval in my chest.
“She’s probably with Winston,” Freddie says.
I stand. “The hospital first. If she’s not there, we try her parents’ house.”
“We have four hours before we’re expected back at the mansion,” Tristan reminds us, closing his laptop.
We move together toward the elevators, but the air between us crackles with unspoken tension.
Our omega has revealed her claws.
The question is: what else is she capable of?