Chapter 3 Owen
OWEN
I keep my breathing deep and even, my body slack against the bed like I’m still knocked out by the sedatives they’ve been pumping us full of.
My heartbeat betrays me on the monitor, but as long as no one’s watching too closely, I can keep playing dead while they scramble to fix this.
We’ve been here for days. Maybe weeks. Time blurs when you’re being darted like a fucking animal and waking up restrained to a bed with your head stuffed full of cotton.
Weller and Bianca. Bonded.
Relief and jealousy war in my chest, neither winning, both cutting deep.
He’s free—finally fucking free—but I’m still here, still waiting, still wanting. I want her mark burned into my skin more than I want to breathe.
I haven’t seen Weller since it happened. They’ve probably got him strapped to a table somewhere, poking and prodding at the mark, trying to figure out how the fuck it took. Our pack’s been held together with the equivalent of duct tape, but without him, we’re just drifting pieces.
Christ, watching Bianca leap onto Weller’s back, her teeth sinking into his flesh while he stood there frozen… my heart nearly stopped. Couldn’t do a damn thing but watch. Would it kill her? Would it kill him? Would it—
Fuck. The memory alone makes my cock throb under the thin hospital sheet.
Whitney’s voice has been my only confirmation they’re alive. Her endless bitching about how Bianca stole him from her and how life isn’t fair has been my only update. Never thought I’d be grateful for Whitney’s inability to shut her fucking mouth, but here we are.
The monitoring equipment beside me beeps faster as Whitney’s rotten scent fills the room, betraying the rapid heartbeat I’m trying like hell to control. Her scent has always been repulsive to me, but now I’m struggling to tolerate it at all.
Through slitted eyes, I watch her pace. Her heels strike the tile floor—click, click, click—like tiny bullets being fired.
She’s a fucking wreck and looks like the Bride of Chucky after a week-long bender.
Both hands are fucked up. One wrapped in thick bandages, the other in a brace.
A bruise spreads across her cheekbone. Her hair hangs in greasy clumps, and she’s down to one fake eyelash that’s hanging on for dear life.
Beautiful. I’ve never seen her outside match her inside so perfectly before.
My girl is something fucking else.
The Bianca from before all of this bullshit was sunshine and softness.
She apologized for everything, even when it wasn’t her fault.
She wore pastel sundresses and blushed if you looked at her too long.
She’d bite her lip when she got nervous and twist her fingers together when she felt overwhelmed.
Her big rebellion was skipping class once in a blue moon, and even then she’d cave the second Weller started in with one of his lectures.
But this Bianca? Fuck. I’m starting to think we’ve only scratched the surface.
And it lights my blood on fire.
Same blue eyes I fell for, but now they belong to a woman who’d stab you as easily as kiss you. Maybe both at the same time if you piss her off enough.
It’s sexy as fuck watching her flip between vulnerable and wild, never knowing which one you’re going to get until she’s either melting in your arms or going for your throat.
But it’s the way she doesn’t give a single fuck about her own safety that gets to me the most. It makes me want to wrap her in bubble wrap and lock her in a tower somewhere where no one can touch her but us.
Whitney stops pacing. “This is unacceptable,” she hisses at her father, wobbling like she’s about to topple over. No doubt she’s loaded up with drugs too. “You promised me they would never be able to break free.”
Montgomery barely glances up. His face remains blank and emotionless as he checks Tristan’s vitals. “Science evolves with new data, Whitney. The formula can be recalibrated.”
“Recalibrated?” Her voice rises, shrill enough to make me wince. “One of my alphas is gone!”
The way she says my alphas makes me want to throw up. I reject the notion that we were ever hers.
“These things take time,” Montgomery says, moving to Freddie’s bedside.
“We don’t have time!” Whitney stalks toward Freddie’s bed.
Freddie’s monitors start racing the second she gets within feet of him.
Even half-conscious, his body knows she’s a threat.
His golden curls are dark with sweat, plastered against his forehead.
His skin has gone gray, almost translucent under the harsh lights.
The bruises across his face have deepened—evidence of where my fist connected during the show.
I did that.
And I’ve done worse. To all of them.
I hate her so fucking much.
“My sweet boy,” she coos, as she reaches her bandaged hand toward his head, fingers trembling slightly. “You’re going to be okay. We’ll fix this, and everything will go back to normal.”
Normal. Like we’re just going to forget Bianca.
His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths. She knows exactly what she’s doing to him.
“Leave him the fuck alone,” Tristan growls from his bed, his voice rough from disuse but still carrying an edge.
I didn’t realize he was awake.
Whitney’s head snaps toward him, her face contorting. “Know your place, Tristan. I’m still your omega.”
He laughs and her face goes an ugly red. Tristan has always had a way of getting under her skin. “Daddy, do something about him.”
Montgomery frowns at the monitors and sighs as if we’re all just minor inconveniences in his day. “Mr. Miller’s stress levels are rising,” he notes clinically, tapping at the screen. “I’d prefer you not agitate the subjects while they’re stabilizing.”
Subjects. The casual dehumanization makes my fingers curl into fists at my sides.
I hate how helpless and easily controlled we are. I want to tear out of these restraints, smash through the window, and find Bianca and Weller, but my eyelids keep drooping, heavy as sandbags. I can barely keep my head up, let alone fight.
“I want to know where she is,” Whitney demands, pacing again. “Where are you keeping her?”
“Ms. Quinn is secure,” Montgomery replies, not answering her question. That information would be useful for me to know, but I’m glad Whitney is in the dark about her location.
The thought of Bianca strapped down like us, at Montgomery’s mercy, makes my blood boil. I pull against the restraints, but it’s useless.
“And what about him?” Whitney’s voice wobbles, and there’s real fear beneath her anger. “Weller?”
Montgomery’s expression doesn’t change, but his fingers tighten on the tablet. “We’re still figuring things out, Whitney, but you will see him soon.”
What is that supposed to mean? Is Weller coming back?
“I want that bitch gone.” Whitney’s voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “I want her out of my life and out of their heads. She’s ruining everything!” The last part comes out as a shriek.
“Ms. Quinn is not your concern,” Montgomery says firmly. “I will handle this.”
“You better fix this, Daddy.”
He doesn’t answer her, and Whitney moves to the window, staring out at nothing.
I think of Bianca, her skin pressed to mine, and that warmth drags me under. The world blurs, and I let sleep swallow me whole.
The door swings open so hard it bounces off the wall, and my eyes snap open.
Two guards walk Weller in, and the sight of him disturbs me.
He’s lost quite a bit of weight. His tall frame is hunched, his face pale and still bruised along his jaw where Whitney kicked him, his dark hair plastered to his forehead.
A collar I’m all too familiar with circles his throat, and his hands are bound in front of him with thick ties.
But it’s the mark on his neck that stops my breathing.
Bianca’s bite is vivid against his skin, completely covering Whitney’s old claim.
His eyes are dull, and his legs are struggling to support his weight. Still, there’s something about him that makes the guards handle him like he’s a bomb about to detonate. He has a bright red mark on his cheek that makes me wonder if they roughed him up.
Behind Weller, our fathers file in like a procession of vultures. My father towers over the others, his thick shoulders straining his jacket. His gaze lands on me, and I close my eyes again, but not before I catch the disgusted curl of his lip.
Freddie’s father, Charles, with the smarmy little smile that never reaches his eyes, glances at his son’s bed with about as much concern as he’d show a broken appliance.
Tristan’s father, Alexander, walks in next, looking like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. His eyes dart around the room, probably running cost-benefit analyses in his head while his son lies drugged across from me.
And finally, Weller’s father, William, every bit as precise and controlled as his son but with none of the humanity, glares at his son like he could shoot daggers from his eyes.
Ah. Did he hit Weller? Not his usual form of punishment—he typically prefers psychological mind fucks—but I wouldn’t put it past him.
Not with everything that’s happened.
I want to ask Weller about Bianca… has he seen her? But it wouldn’t be advisable with this audience.
Whitney steps toward Weller, her bandaged hand outstretched toward his face. “Weller, darling—”
The sound that tears from Weller’s throat isn’t human.
A low and guttural warning that means stay the fuck back.
Everyone in the room goes still. The guards’ hands twitch toward their batons.
Whitney jerks her arm back like she’s been burned, fear flashing across her face before hardening into something brittle and vicious.
“I suggest you keep your distance,” Montgomery says mildly. “The new bond has triggered extreme protective instincts. He views you as a threat to his mate.”
Neither Whitney nor Weller’s father can hide their displeasure at his words.
“She’s not his mate,” his father snaps. “This...” He inspects the mark on Weller’s neck with open disgust. “This abomination is only temporary.”
I catch Whitney smirking.
Weller’s eyes narrow, suddenly sharper and more focused. His gaze finds mine, locking on with an intensity that makes my heart rate spike. He gives me the slightest nod—so subtle I almost miss it—before shifting his attention to Freddie’s bed, then Tristan’s.
His father catches the exchange and turns to him, lip curling.
“Was it worth it, son?” he snarls, each word dripping with contempt.
“Was it worth burning your whole pack to the ground and throwing away your legacy for some unstable omega with bad breeding?” His voice drops lower.
“No pussy in the world is worth what you gave up. You’re weak. ”
Weller lunges suddenly, slamming into his father before a guard activates his collar. He drops to the floor, body convulsing as the current continues to rip through him.
Whitney gasps. “That’s what you get,” she whispers, her voice trembling with something like glee.
She’s enjoying watching him get punished for this.
“Stop!” I shout, jerking as much as I can against the restraints. It’s not enough. It’s never fucking enough.
My father’s hand clamps down on my shoulder, squeezing hard enough to grind my bones together. “You say another word, Owen, and I’ll make sure you’re next.”
I glare up at him, every ounce of hate I’ve ever felt concentrated into that look. But I keep my mouth shut. Not because I’m afraid of what he’ll do, but because I know they’re just waiting for an excuse. And I can’t get to my girl if they fuck me up too badly.
“Enough,” Montgomery says, moving to check on Weller, and the guards help him to his feet. “Guards, move the subjects to their holding cells. Mr. Dashwood, if you want a word with your son, I suggest you do it under less hostile circumstances.”
His father gives him one last withering look, then turns and stalks from the room.
Weller sags, the fight gone out of him, and the guards haul him away.
The guards begin unlocking us from our beds one by one, moving us into wheelchairs and moving us through the door. As we’re wheeled past, I see Whitney swipe a scalpel from a rolling tray and start stabbing it into the floor, over and over.
I hope like hell that crazy bitch stays away from all of us.