27. Tristan
TRISTAN
Ugh.
My shoulders burn from sleeping on concrete all night.
We’ve been locked in this basement since Whitney got home, shrieking questions we couldn’t answer honestly without sending her hunting for Bianca.
Dr. Montgomery’s extended business trip with Whitney left us without our regular doses of the drugs that keep us tethered to his psychotic daughter. Thank fuck, because we were able to lie to her more easily than usual.
The pain is not quite as potent.
All I can think about is Bianca.
Fuck, I’m obsessed. Completely, utterly obsessed with everything about her.
The way she looked at us in that clearing like we were salvation and damnation wrapped in one.
The sounds she made when I was buried inside her—little gasps and moans that are burned into my brain forever.
How her body arched beneath mine, perfect and desperate and…
Mine .
The possessiveness that floods through me is so intense it makes my head spin. She belongs to me. To us. Every breath she takes, every heartbeat, every thought in that brilliant, defiant head—it’s all ours.
My cock hardens, pressing against the thin fabric of the sweats I’m wearing. Even after the scalding showers and chemical scrubs to hide our activities, I swear I can still taste her on my tongue. I can still feel the hot, wet heat of her wrapped around me.
The connection to her feels otherworldly. The desire to mark every inch of her skin so thoroughly that no one else would even dare look at her is eating me alive.
“Stop thinking about it,” Owen growls from the cage beside mine. His knuckles are split and bloody from pounding the bars all night. “You’re making this worse.”
But I can’t stop. Every second that passes without her feels like dying.
“Making what worse?”
“The smell.” Freddie shifts in his cage across from us, arms wrapped around his knees. Dark circles ring his eyes, and his hair is a mess. “You reek of want, Tris. It’s making all of us think about it, and Whitney is going to smell it too.”
He’s right. The basement air is thick with alpha arousal.
Owen looks like he hasn’t slept at all. His shirt is torn from clawing at himself, and there are fresh scratches on his arms—a habit he’s picked up over the years to expend his anger.
Even Weller is affected. The small tells that most people would miss are there.
What a picture.
All of us sitting in our tiny prisons, losing our fucking minds.
“Can’t help it. I miss her,” I murmur, pressing my forehead against the cold metal. “I think she was born to drive us insane.”
“We got out of control with her yesterday,” Weller states from the corner cage. Even trapped like an animal, he sits with perfect posture. His eyes flick to Owen, then to me, like he’s calling us out specifically. “We were... excessive. Too intense.”
“What the fuck do you expect?” Owen says incredulously. “We’ve wanted her for fucking ever, and she laid herself out like a feast. Of course, we lost our shit.”
“She liked it.” I lean back with a smirk. “Or did you miss all those sounds she was making?”
Weller’s jaw ticks. “That’s not the point?—”
I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of my skull.
“Oh, that’s rich coming from you,” Owen cuts in with a bitter laugh. “Didn’t exactly refuse when it was your turn.”
Weller’s composure falters. “That was different.”
“How?” Freddie scoffs. “Because you think you were being gentle? You had no problem knotting her.”
“Lucky bastard,” Owen mutters.
A laugh escapes me because we all reek of jealousy now. “You make a good point though, Weller. I need to establish a safe word with her.”
Owen hums at the thought of that. I can already see his mind working.
“Whitney is on edge,” Freddie changes the subject. “I hope she doesn’t go after Bianca.”
I close my eyes and replay the scene. Whitney storming through our quarters at three in the morning, blonde hair disheveled, designer clothes wrinkled from travel. But it was her eyes that gave her away. Bloodshot and wired. Like a woman on the edge of losing everything.
Then she got it in her head that we had something to do with Rebecca, Liz, and Katie not answering her the last few days.
Which I guess we did, but not because we touched them ourselves.
The thought fills me with dark satisfaction. Our omega, dismantling her support system. I would still really like to know what she did. No one has heard from any of them.
And my father is pissed.
A bitter laugh escapes me. “The irony is beautiful, really. We went to her parents’ house to question her about Whitney’s friends, and she completely flipped the script. Had us chasing her through the woods like animals in heat instead of getting a single answer.”
“Can’t say I hate her strategy,” Owen says darkly.
For a while, each of us is lost in our own hell, knowing what’s coming.
“Montgomery will be here soon,” Freddie finally breaks the quiet. “Once that happens...”
Once that happens, we’ll be good little puppets again. Responsive to Whitney’s every command. Unable to resist when she orders us to touch her, perform for her twisted entertainment, and whatever the fuck else she comes up with.
The thought of putting my hands on Whitney after touching Bianca makes my throat burn.
Nausea builds. “I can’t touch her again… not after Bianca.”
It’s too repulsive to consider.
“Once the chemicals take over, we won’t have a choice,” Weller states brutally.
He’s right. Most frustrating fucking feeling in the world.
Back to being dead inside. Numb. Depressed every waking moment. After having this taste of what life could be with Bianca, going back feels like dying.
“She’s going to hate us if we fuck Whitney again,” Owen says, his voice hollow. His fist slams into the cage bars with a sickening crack.
We’re all suddenly drowning in that truth.
And that’s exactly how Whitney would try to destroy her for good too. She’d send another fucking video… but make it worse. More degrading. More soul-destroying.
I’d rather die than let her experience that.
Whitney had mentioned last night how she’d tried to come back early, but her father wouldn’t let her due to business obligations. How paranoid she was that something had happened while she was gone.
We’d told her she was being ridiculous. That we’d been in business meetings ourselves, that nothing had changed.
All lies, of course.
We were really fucking lucky to get the time we did with Bianca.
Suddenly, there are footsteps echoing in the house above us. Purposeful. Deliberate. Heading our way.
Dr. Montgomery?
Whitney?
We all go still, listening.
The basement door slams open, knocking into the wall, and Whitney appears at the top of the stairs. But this isn’t the polished socialite we’re used to seeing.
She’s a disaster.
Blood spatters her all-white outfit. Her hair has fallen out of its bun and looks like a rat’s nest. Her makeup is smeared, mascara streaking down her cheeks like black tears. One arm is cradled in a sling, her hand clearly injured and useless.
She looks like she’s been in a fight.
And lost.
“Well, well,” she coos, descending the stairs. A chill goes through the room. “Look at my beautiful boys. Did you miss me?”
None of us answers. The sight of her covered in blood flashes like a red danger sign.
Whose blood?
“I had the most interesting morning,” Whitney continues, approaching the cages with that same unhinged smile. “Want to guess what happened?”
Silence.
“No? Not feeling chatty?” She laughs, high and sharp. “That’s okay. I’ll tell you anyway.”
She stops in front of Owen’s cage, close enough to touch the bars.
“I went to the spa,” Whitney says conversationally. “You know, for some relaxation after my long trip.”
Bianca mentioned going to the spa with her mom.
“And guess who I ran into?”
She pauses, savoring our silence.
“Your little whore.”
Owen steps forward, hands wrapping around the bars. “Don’t you dare fucking?—“
“Don’t I dare what?” Whitney’s tone turns razor-sharp. “State the obvious?”
She moves restlessly, energy crackling off her in waves of agitation.
“She’s pathetic,” Whitney observes with venom. “Like a stray dog begging for scraps.”
The cage bars creak under my grip.
“I tried to be nice,” Whitney continues. “Tried to catch up with my old friend. But she was so... hostile. So defensive. Almost like she had something to hide.”
She stops pacing, turning to face us.
“So I asked her if she touched you.”
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.
“And you know what the lying little bitch did?”
Whitney reaches into her purse, pulling out her phone.
The video starts playing, and my world stops.
Security footage. The spa’s lounge, where Whitney is approaching a figure in a plush robe.
Bianca.
My girl, looking like she’s asleep while Whitney stands over her. I watch her posture change, shoulders squaring, chin lifting. Even in the grainy footage, the defiance blazing in her eyes is obvious.
My chest swells with pride. Mine.
“Watch this part,” Whitney breathes, her voice thick with excitement. “This is where your little pet shows her true colors.”
On screen, Whitney slides into the chair beside Bianca without invitation. They exchange words, and I can tell Bianca is trying to remain calm, trying to de-escalate. She shifts slightly, angling toward the exit.
Whitney’s hand shoots out, grabbing Bianca’s wrist, which she surprisingly doesn’t react to.
“Don’t leave on my account,” Whitney’s voice carries through the phone’s speaker. “It’s been what... five years? I’d love to catch up with my oldest friend.”
Bianca tries to pull away, but Whitney’s nails dig deeper.
Then Whitney does something that makes my blood boil. She inhales, deep and deliberate, right in Bianca’s space.
“You smell like...” Whitney murmurs on the video, eyes narrowing as she studies Bianca’s face. Then she leans in again, breathing deeper.
Her face transforms as recognition hits.