Chapter 4 Weller
WELLER
I glare at the bars of my cage, grinding my teeth so hard that I’m giving myself a headache. If I focused any harder, I could probably melt the metal with my mind. My pack… Christ. Matted hair, wrinkled clothes, faces wrecked and haunted, but they’re all in one piece. Still breathing.
Why move us here now? What’s the play? My father wants the bond with Bianca gone—that much is obvious—but Montgomery?
He’s dragging his feet. The doctor’s hesitation reeks of worry.
Maybe because breaking the bond could kill us.
One of us. Both of us. Hard to tell which scenario keeps him up at night and which one of us he’d want to survive.
My gut says it's Bianca who matters to him.
Freddie’s face is a mess of fading bruises, reminders of Owen’s fist and Whitney’s orders. All of them have that hollow, sedated look, but it’s what’s on my neck that has their eyes fixated.
“She really fucking went for it.” Tristan can’t look away from Bianca’s mark, like he never expected it could ever be this easy. Owen’s staring too, hands fisted on his knees. Jealousy rolls off them, but I understand. I'd feel the same.
Freddie mashes his cheek to the bars, not caring when they dig in. “Did you see her?” His voice is desperate, eyes burning with hope that I don’t want to kill. “Is she okay?”
“Alive.” That’s the only truth I have, so I grab it with both hands. The bond thrums faintly, muffled, a chain yanking me toward her through a wall of water. “She’s locked up somewhere in Montgomery’s office. I haven’t seen her, and I fucking begged.”
Understatement. I lost my dignity pleading for a glimpse of her. The need claws at me all the time.
“You can feel her? She’s yours? You’re hers?” Owen’s voice is thick and on edge. He’s halfway out of his skin, vibrating inside the cage.
I want to spill everything. Bianca didn’t just mark me.
She erased every scar I’ve carried for five years and washed the slate clean.
Her teeth in my flesh felt like finding refuge.
Even with the bond smothered, it’s the only thing that soothes me.
But looking at them, I choke back the details—they don’t need that kind of torment.
“Yeah.” I stroke the ridges of her mark, thumb tracing the outline again and again. “But it’s muted now… like there’s a barrier in the way. Drugs.”
“Lucky fuck. I’d kill to feel her,” Owen snaps, and I believe him. He means it.
Tristan leans forward, words barely a whisper. “What did Montgomery do to you? Is Whitney’s bond gone?”
I press my fingers against Bianca's bite for the hundredth time today. The indentations where her teeth broke skin have become my touchstone, my proof that she's mine, that this isn't some elaborate hallucination. The raised edges under my fingertips ground me in a way that nothing else can.
“Mostly kept me under. Monitored vitals, ran blood panels. Nothing dramatic.” I watch their faces, weighing every reaction.
I don't mention the interrogations or how Montgomery's eyes lit up when I discussed Bianca. There’s an obsession there that I can’t quite put my finger on.
“Whitney is gone. Like she never existed. "
Tristan's eyebrows shoot up. "They said that bonding someone else wouldn’t be possible—"
"I know." I hold their gazes, one by one. This should be a conversation for after we’re free, and maybe even her secret to reveal, but I can’t keep it buried.
"Bianca is our scent match. Montgomery asked me if I knew anything about pre-bonds.
He was evasive, but my guess is that we formed the scent match because of how close we were growing up. "
The silence that follows is shocked. Owen's mouth falls open slightly, and Freddie's eyes widen.
“I always wondered if she would be,” Tristan says, tone faraway. “I never wanted anyone else.”
“But how do you know, Weller?” Freddie’s not convinced. “Wouldn’t we all have smelled her? Is it just you?”
“I didn’t smell her. I tasted her.” I can’t stop thinking about her skin against my lips, the sweetness on my tongue.
Freddie’s pupils blow wide at that, a flush creeping up his neck.
“Dude, I want to fucking kill you right now,” Owen grits out, the words a warning growl.
Tristan shifts uncomfortably, adjusting himself without subtlety. "What does she taste like?"
My throat tightens. I shouldn't tell them—it can only torment them further—but screw it. They need something to hold onto in this nightmare.
“Sweet. Vanilla and amber, with this warmth that spreads out inside you.” I watch their faces as it sinks in. “She’s always been ours. Montgomery knew. Hell, I think our fathers knew too.”
“How do you know that?” Tristan again, sharp and rabid for answers.
“Montgomery didn’t deny it when I accused him of suppressing her omega.” Hot rage builds in my chest as I say it out loud. “They kept her from us.” So many years lost.
“Sick fucks.” Owen’s face twists, eyes going black. “All so they could chain us to Whitney? For money? For the Montgomery name?”
“Our fathers, yeah." I rub my temples, trying to force order from the chaos. "I can't put a finger on Montgomery's interest in Bianca yet. My father wants my bond with her gone, but Montgomery was pushing back, so he's not happy."
Freddie blanches. “Can they even do that?”
“I don’t know. My father mentioned flying in specialists. Some kind of procedure, supposedly high success rate.” As if cutting out my soul is a business win.
“How do we break her out before they get to her? There has to be a way.” Freddie is panicked, knuckles bone-white on the bars.
I have no answer. Just the same question, thumping in my skull. Losing her isn’t an option. That void would swallow me whole. They may as well take me out back and shoot me.
We go quiet, each sinking into the nightmares that plague us.
Exhaustion creeps in and steals us one by one. I cling to the faint, flickering pulse of Bianca in my mind, refusing to let go, hanging on long after the others have faded. But eventually, I can’t fight it.
No dreams. Just cold blackness.
The creak of the door snaps me awake. Light floods in, spilling across the cold floor like a spotlight, harsh and blinding after the oppressive dimness of our surroundings.
I blink rapidly, my eyes struggling to adjust as I feel every muscle in my body tense with instinctive alertness.
Owen jolts up beside me, predatory and wild, while Freddie and Tristan drag themselves up slower, still swimming through the after-effects of whatever they’d been given.
Montgomery stands at the top of the stairs, backlit like a specter in that blinding white coat. He walks down the steps calmly, tablet in hand. My pulse kicks into overdrive.
"Good evening, gentlemen," he greets us, as if we're colleagues at a conference instead of men locked in cages.
None of us answer. Pointless. Begging gets you nothing. Threats get you shocked. Questions get you ignored.
He doesn’t spare us a glance as he pulls out his phone and calls someone. "Whitney? I need you to come down to the basement. Yes. Right now."
“Fuck,” Owen mutters, the word sour with dread.
Tristan shakes off sleep, meets my gaze, and I can see the tension coiling within him. "It must be the new formula," he says quietly, a grim realization settling over us.
Whitney arrives a few minutes later, practically bouncing as she skips down the steps, her face lit with an unsettling excitement that reminds me of a child on Christmas morning.
“What are you doing, Daddy? Will this fix our bonds?”
Montgomery points to a chair by the cages. “Sit, Whitney. I’ll give you medication first so the procedure doesn’t hurt you.”
She sits, hands folded like she’s awaiting a medal, posture demure and perfect. It’s whiplash, seeing her go from rabid to docile.
“What’s happening?” Freddie’s voice is barely there.
Montgomery doesn't answer, just sets his case on a nearby table and begins removing items.
“What is it?” My voice comes out rough.
“It’s not for you, Mr. Dashwood,” Montgomery tosses over his shoulder.
Whitney’s gloating is so loud it drowns out everything else.
She holds out her arm for her father before he even asks, rolling up the sleeve of her pajama top with the fluttery anticipation of a pageant queen waiting for the tiara.
The man preps her skin and slides the needle in with barely a pause.
She doesn’t flinch, just beams at him, then at us, like she’s being crowned.
“This will prepare your system for the next phase.” His tone is all business. He gestures to a bench over by the wall. “Wait over there, Whitney. I’ll start on the others.”
Next phase of what?
Not long after Whitney sits down, her entire body droops in the chair. Her eyelids close and she slumps forward, drooling. Whatever Montgomery dosed her with, it hit hard. None of us are complaining about the silence.
Then he turns to us. "Mr. Barrett. Your turn," Montgomery says, voice even, calm, almost bored.
Tristan scrambles back, teeth bared. "Fuck you," he spits. "You’re not chaining me to that psycho bitch even more than I already am."
Montgomery sighs, like he’s tired of dealing with idiots. "I was hoping we could do this the easy way." He holds up a remote, points, presses.
Tristan seizes, body locked and twisted, eyes rolling back as the collar activates.
“Stop! Fuck, stop it!” Freddie howls, rattling his cage.
While Tristan’s still twitching, Montgomery reaches through an opening in the cage and plunges a needle into him. The effects are instant and brutal. Tristan arches, retches, vomits onto the ground. He shakes so hard his teeth chatter, and I’m worried he’ll bite his tongue off.
"What the fuck are you doing to him?" Owen roars.
I can only watch as Tristan writhes, hands clawing his own neck, right over Whitney’s old bite.
Montgomery straightens. “There’s no need for theatrics.”
He moves to Freddie’s cell. “Mr. Miller. Will you cooperate, or must I compel you?”
Freddie’s breathing is wild. “Go to hell.”
Montgomery shrugs, and hits the remote. Freddie falls to the ground, and when the current cuts off the needle is jabbed into his shoulder. Freddie convulses before going limp.
I grip the bars until my hands cramp. “You’re going to kill them!”
“The process is uncomfortable, but not fatal. Your concern is noted, Mr. Dashwood.” He turns to Owen.
Owen is already squared up, teeth bared, pure fury. “Do it, you fucking coward.”
Montgomery obliges, and as soon as Owen has fallen into a position where he can reach, he shoves the needle into his neck and empties the syringe. He starts retching and rolling around while Montgomery doesn’t even bother to watch the aftereffects.
He addresses the guard at the top of the stairs. “Take Whitney to her room. Don’t let her out.” The guard hauls Whitney’s limp body up the steps.
Montgomery checks his watch, then vanishes from the room.
Freddie’s curled up, arms banded tight around his knees, his whole body trembling like he might shake apart if he let go for even a second. Sweat beads on his forehead, draining every hint of color from his face.
Tristan’s sprawled on his side, knuckles crushed between his teeth, jaw locked so hard that blood wells up where he’s bitten straight through the skin.
He keeps making this sound—a low, broken animal noise that claws up my spine and sets every nerve jangling.
His eyes are blown wide, pupils swallowing up almost all the blue.
Owen? He’s gone feral. Scraping at the concrete with his bare nails, dragging lines through the filth, not even pretending to be human anymore.
No words, just these guttural, desperate grunts.
I’ve seen Owen lose it before, seen him lash out, but this is something else.
Like he’s being gutted from the inside, stripped out, hollowed.
The bars dig into my palms. “What did he do to you?” I hear my own voice, but nothing gets through to any of them. They’re too far gone, trapped in some place I can’t reach, with nothing for me to do but watch and count the minutes stretching out endlessly as they unravel.
When Tristan finally speaks, I flinch. “Whitney.” The word is thin, barely there, a wisp of sound clawing out of him.
My stomach plummets. Is he calling for her?
"What is it, Tristan?" I press myself against the bars, straining to hear.
His eyes find mine, unfocused at first, then clearing for just a moment. "I barely feel her." The words come out slurred, like his tongue is too thick for his mouth.
“What do you mean?” It comes out too loud and echoes in the room. “Tristan?”
His hand shakes as he claws at his neck, where Whitney’s mark is. But he doesn’t answer.
One by one, their bodies go limp against the concrete floor, and I’m left standing alone, with no idea of what just happened.