Sweet Torment (Bittersweet Bonds #2)

Chapter 1 Bianca

BIANCA

“—and that’s when I told the stupid bitch that if she can’t pour a beer right, maybe she should find a job more suited to her skill level, like laying on her back.

That’s easy, right? Any whore can do it.

” Rodney’s laugh grates on my nerves, and his hand digs deeper into my thigh, his fingers pressing hard enough that I’ll certainly have bruises tomorrow.

Worth it.

The barstool is sticky and uncomfortable under my bare legs, the leather squeaking every time I shift even an inch.

I’m wearing a dark wig that’s itchy as hell, and heavy makeup is caked on my face.

The disguise wouldn’t fool someone who knows me, but it gives me anonymity if someone who doesn’t looks at the cameras later.

I force a smile, tilt my head, and giggle, revulsed by his mean, small eyes already glazed over from the alcohol. He’s staring at my breasts and licking his lips.

Yeah. That’s definitely not happening, dickhole.

I rarely wear dresses anymore, but tonight, it fits the part I’m playing as alpha bait.

“You’re so bad,” I purr, letting my fingers trail along his forearm. His skin is clammy, and I resist the urge to wipe my hand on my dress afterward.

“Bad girls like bad boys,” Rodney replies, leaning in close enough that I can count each broken capillary on his nose.

His breath hits me like a toxic cloud. He stinks of beer, smoke, and something rotten.

Still, I lean closer, letting him believe he’s reeling me in.

“And you look like you could be very, very bad.”

Oh Rodney, you have no fucking idea.

Ezra’s frustrated voice cuts through my earpiece. Somebody’s impatient. “Bianca, you’ve been at this for forty minutes. Quit playing around. Drug him and get him to the van. We’re scheduled to meet at the drop-off point in less than an hour.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Yes, sir. Right away, sir.

I know the drill. I’ll get him to the van, and we’ll deliver him to the Alpha Severance Unit, where they’ll chemically castrate him, drug him into docility, and lock him away for whatever remains of his shitty life.

That’s the plan. Ezra’s plan, anyway. One I really want to stick to because it’s the only way to keep him from giving me that look—the one that makes me feel like I’m the world’s biggest fuck-up.

But I have a problem with the plan. Rodney doesn’t deserve Ezra’s mercy. Not even a little bit.

“Tell me more about your work.” I shift so my dress rides up another inch, grabbing his attention. “You must be so important, managing those construction sites and bossing all those big men around.”

He chuckles and launches into a story about firing someone for being late. His chest puffs with the kind of pride that comes from having a little power and using it to be a dick. His hand slides higher on my thigh, thumb dragging against me in a way that makes my skin want to crawl off my body.

“Haven’t I seen you here before?” I tilt my head as if trying to remember. “With a pretty brunette?”

His hand freezes mid-caress, fingers suddenly digging into my flesh. He goes from dumb drunk to rage drunk in the span of a heartbeat. “I don’t want to talk about that ungrateful cunt.”

Three days ago, the emergency line at the refuge rang at 3 AM.

Stacy. Sweet, soft-spoken Stacy with her honey-brown eyes and nervous habit of tucking her hair behind her ear.

She had spent three months with us after escaping Rodney the first time.

I watched her slowly unfurl, like a flower finally getting sunlight and water after being kept in the dark.

Ezra had spent hours counseling her, explaining in his gentle, understanding way the statistics about returning to abusers.

The escalation. The increased danger. But Stacy was more worried about her sixteen-year-old sister than herself.

Rodney had threatened to “pay her a visit” if Stacy didn’t come home.

Men really fucking disturb me sometimes.

But she went back.

This time, leaving nearly killed her. I sat beside her hospital bed, holding her limp hand while machines beeped around us.

Her face was so swollen I barely recognized her.

Purple-black bruises circled her neck where he’d tried to strangle her.

Her ankle was shattered from where he stomped on it repeatedly.

The doctor said she would probably walk with a limp for the rest of her life.

If the neighbor hadn’t found her in the yard, half-conscious and bleeding internally...

He didn’t care if she died. He probably preferred that she did.

“She seemed sweet,” I press, my voice still sugary while something cold crystallizes beneath my skin.

“Sweet?” Rodney sneers, his fingers digging deeper, the pressure now rather painful. “Sweet, my ass. She was good for two things: taking dick and crying about it afterward. You, though...” His eyes rake over me and linger. “I can tell you know how to treat a man right.”

I give him my best approximation of a seductive smile while my hand trembles under the table—not from fear, but from the herculean effort it takes not to grab my knife and jam it directly into his carotid artery.

I imagine the spray of blood, the shock in his eyes as he realizes what’s happening, the gurgling sounds as he drowns in his own fluids.

The fantasy is so vivid I can almost feel the warm wetness on my face.

It’s less than what he deserves.

“Gotta take a piss,” Rodney announces, oblivious to the murder fantasy playing out in my head. “Don’t go anywhere, beautiful.”

“Bianca. Now.” Ezra’s voice startles me out of my thoughts.

The second Rodney stumbles toward the bathroom, I pull the small vial from my bra and dispense the clear liquid into his beer in one smooth motion. It takes less than ten minutes to start working—just enough time to get him outside and away from witnesses.

My fingers move to my necklace before I consciously decide to act. I disconnect the body cam, remove the earpiece, and drop both into my purse.

I’m sorry, Ezra.

But some alphas don’t deserve to breathe the same air as their victims.

When Rodney returns, his fly is half-zipped and his hands are still wet. He grabs his beer and chugs the rest like he’s dying of thirst.

Good boy. Drink it all down.

“Let’s get out of here, baby. I know a place.”

Me too, Rodney. Me too.

The only place you’re going is hell.

I stand, letting him wrap his arm around my waist as I feign tipsiness from the drink I’ve barely touched.

Between the alcohol he’s consumed and the drug now entering his bloodstream, his movements are becoming sluggish and uncoordinated.

He blinks slowly, as if his eyelids have suddenly gained weight, as we head toward the door.

I don’t turn toward the parking lot where Ezra and Megan wait in the van.

Instead, I go left, toward the trees, toward the sound of rushing water that has been calling to me since we arrived.

The guilt eats at me. Here I am, breaking another promise.

But Stacy’s lying in a hospital bed while this piece of shit is already hunting for his next victim.

“Where are we going?” Rodney slurs, his heavy body leaning increasingly on me for support.

“Somewhere private,” I murmur, guiding him down the trail.

The path is empty, shrouded in darkness—perfect for what I have planned. No cameras. No witnesses. Just justice.

The river sounds like applause when we reach it. Like it’s been waiting for this offering all night.

Rodney shoves me against a pine tree, the bark biting into my back through the thin fabric of my dress. His breath is hot and wrong against my neck as he presses his body against mine. “You smell weird for an omega.”

The artificial omega scent I’m using is decent enough to lure in dumb-as-fuck alphas, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the real thing. I may look like an omega tonight, but I smell like nothing, taste like nothing... am nothing. A ghost. A weapon.

I cringe inwardly, remembering how desperate I used to be for alpha validation. Well… their validation. But it’s fine. I’m totally over it. I’ve found other uses for myself.

Much more satisfying uses than playing house with four assholes.

“And you talk too much,” I reply, then push him hard toward the river. He loses his balance easily, the drug making his reactions slow and clumsy. He trips, barely catching himself before hitting the ground.

“What the fuck, you bitch—”

I shove him again, harder this time, and he goes down on the slick rocks at the river’s edge, his head making a satisfying crack against the stone. Before he can recover, I’m on him, knees pinning his chest, both hands forcing his head under the black water.

He fights harder than I expected. Even with the drugs and alcohol in his system, he’s still an alpha, still stronger than me.

His nails rake down my arms, tearing the skin in long, bloody furrows.

Shit. Oh well, it’s too late to worry about DNA.

His body bucks and thrashes beneath me, trying to throw me off.

Water splashes up, soaking my dress, my face, my hair.

The wig slips sideways, and I don’t bother fixing it.

I silently pray the river will wash away any evidence, that this will look like the drunken slip and fall I’m staging it to be. But I don’t dwell on it. I’m fully committed, regardless of the outcome. I’m fully prepared to take all the blame.

I count in my head the way Ezra taught me during those first months at the refuge, when panic attacks left me hyperventilating and dizzy. Now I use his technique to stay calm while I hold this monster underwater. He’d probably hate to know I’ve repurposed his coping mechanism for murder.

Rodney’s struggles are weakening, his hands slipping from my bloody arms to slap weakly at the water, at my legs, at nothing.

I focus on Stacy’s face, on the purple fingerprints around her throat, on the sixteen-year-old sister who’s now safe from becoming his next target.