Chapter 5 Bianca
BIANCA
The pen weighed nothing in my hand. But signing that contract felt like loading a gun and handing it to Dr. Montgomery. Safety off, barrel pressed to my skull.
I hate the thought of being someone’s bitch.
Six hours ago, I signed my body away for their freedom. Twenty-three pages of legal jargon that basically translated to: “Congratulations, Bianca, you’re completely fucked, but at least they won’t be.” The ink hadn’t even dried before I felt a prickle of heat under my skin.
They had five goddamn years to break free, get out from under Whitney’s thumb, find a way to escape those cages.
But no. Still trapped. Still dancing to Whitney’s twisted tune, on display for anyone with enough cash or influence to gawk at them like show dogs paraded for blue ribbons and private amusement.
I’m sure they tried. They must have had plans, schemes, and strategies. But none of it means shit when you’re still chained at the end of it.
The bond with Weller throbs under my skin, begging for contact. It’s a demanding, insistent ache that keeps me up at night.
It’s making me feel homicidal. More than usual. I spend much of my day envisioning all the people I want to kill and all the ways I could do it. I’m a creative girl with a lot of time on my hands at the moment.
And after testing every inch of this room for weaknesses, I’ve come up empty. The walls are solid. The vents too small. The windows reinforced. The door locks from the outside.
My skin burns like I’ve got a fever. Pre-heat, Dr. Montgomery said. My body excitedly preparing for something it’s been denied, and now we have a mate! My vagina didn’t get the memo that my mate isn’t invited, nor are the only other men I’d actually want inside me. Funny how that works.
And of course the universe would finally give me a piece of my mate pie right before ripping him away. Can’t just have an impending heat of doom and a shock collar and Dr. Montgomery’s ownership hanging over my head—no, let’s add mate separation to really make it a shit fest.
I wonder if they’re free yet. Have they put the pieces together themselves, or did Dr. Montgomery tell them the truth? Where is home for them now? Is Whitney having the biggest bitch fit of her life, smashing priceless vases against walls and screaming until her perfect little throat is raw?
I’m really fucking hoping so. Though there’s no way she’s feeling even a fraction of the pain I endured when I lost them.
Nonetheless, the thought of her fury is the only thing that makes me smile these days.
Do I want my first heat to be in the woods with alphas I’ve never met hunting me down while I try not to beg them to mount me?
Fuck no. But I’ve gotten really good at doing what needs to be done to get the result I want.
And I wanted them free more than I wanted anything for myself.
More than dignity. More than safety. More than my own body, apparently.
Not so sure they’re going to appreciate my gift.
Ezra and Megan are probably trying to track me down, but Dr. Montgomery cut the tracker out while I was unconscious.
And Winston must realize I’m not having a mental breakdown. He’s too perceptive for Montgomery’s lies, plus he knows some of what’s going on. But what’s he going to do? Storm the building on crutches? Call the police that Dr. Montgomery probably fully funds? Send in the alphas to get recaptured?
One perk of signing the deal with the devil was the room upgrade.
It even has wallpaper—soft blue with little white flowers that I count obsessively to pass the time.
Basic furniture that doesn’t scream psychiatric patient and even a comfortable queen-sized bed with actual bedding.
There’s even a television mounted to the wall where I can’t reach it.
Can’t say I’m too interested, though. I’ve flipped through every channel—hundreds of mind-numbing options—but nothing can distract me from the heat aggressively building under my skin and between my legs.
The slick wetness that makes me want to scream.
The emptiness that nothing can fill. Especially not my sad, sad fingers.
Only two more hours until I get to see them and verify with my own eyes that my sacrifice made a difference. That they’re actually free from that mansion and free from her.
That this wasn’t all for nothing.
I stumble to the bathroom, my legs shaky and weak, cranking the shower to arctic. The cold water hits my fevered skin, and I actually whimper—a sound so pathetic it makes me hate myself more. Need pulses between my legs.
The memory of them fucking me into oblivion replays in my head nonstop.
I’ve barely had time to process what happened in the woods right before everything went to shit.
I wouldn’t call myself a sex-crazed lunatic in typical circumstances, but I’ve been wanting those particular dicks inside me since I understood the concept of pleasure.
Ten out of ten.
My nipples are so sensitive it actually hurts to touch them. I roll one between my fingers and pinch. Sliding my hand down between my legs, I find myself wet, just as I suspected.
My breaths start to come faster as I think about how they felt inside me while my fingers tease my entrance.
Owen’s rough hands all over my body as he claimed every inch, and his low grunt as he lined himself up and pushed inside me.
“Fuck, Princess.” Tristan’s filthy whispers against my ear drive me to the point of begging for him.
I imagine his hand on my throat, squeezing just enough to blur the edges, and for a second I squeeze my own neck, just to remind myself what it feels like. My pulse hammers in my palm.
My hips rock against my hand as I feel the phantom touch of Freddie’s soft, full lips pressed against mine, while his tongue moves inside my mouth in sync with the rhythm of his cock.
Weller’s strong arms holding me as his teeth sink into my neck and the way his knot fills me, stretching me so wide it feels like I might split in two.
Oh, fuck. I stretch my fingers apart, trying to replicate something close to what they feel like, but it’s no use.
I move on to circling my clit, a little furiously, my pace quickening as I chase relief that won’t satisfy—not really, not without them. When I finally eke out an orgasm, it’s like throwing a cup of water on a forest fire. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
I could probably come a few more times, but I need to get out. Take a nap. Settle down.
I’m not sure why they can’t be the ones hunting me in the woods. The bond hums its agreement, making everything worse, sending another wave of wetness between my thighs.
I pull on clean clothes, but the fabric just agitates me more.
The soft cotton of my shirt feels like sandpaper against my nipples.
The seam of my shorts presses lightly against my clit with every movement, a constant reminder that I’m empty empty empty.
Everything’s too much. Too soft, too rough, too everything.
There’s a soft knock at my door. “Ms. Quinn? It’s time.”
When I glance in the mirror, there’s a wildness in my face I don’t recognize, and I wonder if they’ll see it too. My skin feels too tight, like I’m about to burst out of it. Will they see what’s happening to me? Will they know?
I follow the guard down the hallway, and it’s as if my body knows where we’re going because it’s eager to close the distance. My legs move faster than they should, and my heart beats wildly. Stupid, stupid body.
The guard’s keycard beeps, and he pushes open a heavy door with a plaque that reads “Meeting Room.”
I freeze in the doorway, my stomach dropping to my feet. A floor-to-ceiling glass partition bisects the room, creating two sealed chambers. I won’t get to touch them. Not even a fucking hug.
I turn to glare at the camera in the corner. “You’re an asshole.”
Montgomery’s voice crackles through the intercom. “You asked to see them, Ms. Quinn. To confirm what we agreed upon. I’ve fulfilled that requirement. You have fifteen minutes.”
Fifteen minutes. The clock’s already ticking down.
I move closer to the glass, and the empty room on the other side makes me wince. What if they don’t come? What if this is just another one of Dr. Montgomery’s sick games?
My palms are sweaty, and I wipe them on my shorts.
But then a door opens on their side, and they file in one by one.
My breath catches in my throat. They look like absolute shit.
Owen enters first, shoulders rigid with tension. His face is gaunt, cheekbones sharper than I remember, dark circles under his eyes. His hair is disheveled, a t-shirt hanging loose on his frame. He’s lost weight, and too much of it.
Tristan follows, movements jerky, his usual composure gone. There’s stubble on his jawline, and his eyes dart around the room before landing on me. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach out.
Freddie’s glow has dimmed entirely. His smile when he spots me is a pale imitation of the one I know and love, eyes red-rimmed and a desperation in his face that makes my heart hurt. Even his golden hair looks dull.
Weller is last, and the bond between us burns to close the distance and make contact. His hands tremble, and his usually immaculate appearance is nowhere to be found. His shirt is wrinkled, his hair an afterthought.
The moment they’re all inside, they rush forward as one, pressing their bodies against the glass barrier.
“Princess.” Owen’s voice is hoarse, like he hasn’t used it in days. He presses his palms flat against the glass, and I match him with mine.
My body moves down the line, drawn to where their hands rest against the glass, my hands aligning with theirs, though I can’t feel their heat. The barrier is thick and cold against my palms.
The bond is screaming in agony when I get to Weller. Can’t touch him, can’t smell him. I linger there as we all process this new version of torment.
Weller finally speaks. “Bianca.” His voice breaks on my name. “Why are you wearing a collar?”
I reach up to touch the metal band around my neck. “It’s nothing.”
“That’s not nothing,” Tristan snaps, his eyes narrowing. “That’s a fucking shock collar. We’re well acquainted.”
“What’s going on?” Owen glances around like he’s trying to figure out a way in. His fist clenches and unclenches at his side. “Why are you still here? Why can’t we touch you?”
Tristan’s voice overlaps Owen’s, loaded with suspicion. “Why’d they cut us loose? There’s no way they let us walk away from her without a reason.”
I’m still trying to form an answer.
Freddie presses his forehead to the glass, and I move to him, pressing my forehead against his. “Hey, Sunshine, you look good.”
He laughs like that’s absurd but immediately cuts himself off. “B, why are you here? Is he hurting you?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Then what is it?” Tristan moves closer, catching my eye. “Why did he remove the bond with Whitney?”
I’m relieved to have the confirmation. “Is it completely gone?”
“Mostly,” Tristan confirms. “The chemical component is gone, and the original bond is weak, like it’s dying out. She’s not allowed to come near––.”
“She’s banned,” Owen interrupts, slamming his palm against the glass. “Not allowed within five hundred feet of us. Thank fuck. But why? What did you do?”
“Doesn’t matter why,” I say, trying to sound casual. “You’re out. You’re free. That’s what—“
“Bullshit.” Owen’s voice drops to that dangerous register that usually makes me shiver. “We’re not morons, Princess. What did you give up?”
A bead of sweat rolls down my temple. Just being near them is making everything worse, my body recognizing what it wants but can’t have. The heat under my skin flares, and I shift uncomfortably.
“Bianca.” Tristan catches the movement immediately, and I can see his brilliant mind working to put the pieces together. His eyes widen slightly.
“Where did they move you?” I’m not sure how I want to explain this, how to make them understand. “Are your fathers treating you okay?”
“Stop deflecting,” Weller demands, his voice tight with growing panic. “Answer us.”
“We’re in the penthouse. There are guards, but it’s fine.” Tristan doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Now your turn. What did you give Montgomery?”
Montgomery’s voice comes through the speaker overhead. “Twelve minutes remaining.”
“Princess,” Owen says, and now his voice is pure warning. The calm before he loses his shit completely. “What. Did. You. Do?”
“It’s not a big deal. I’ll be fine.”