Chapter 7
BIANCA
Roses.
The horrid scent begins to pull me from sleep, like petals are being crammed down my throat. I’ve had this nightmare before.
Giggles reach my ears. Soft, feminine, and sickly sweet. Multiple voices whisper in the dark.
But then I catch it—beneath the roses, something else drifts into my senses. Teakwood and bergamot.
Weller.
My brain sharpens instantly.
I jerk awake to hands on my wrists. Bone-deep panic claws its way up my throat. A knee jams my thigh to the mattress, and someone is straddling my stomach. I buck upward, trying to throw them off, but there’s too much weight. I can’t move.
I’m trapped.
Whitney came to visit me.
“Hold her legs, Katie!” she barks.
Of course. Her three bitches are here, too.
“Surprise, B.” Whitney’s face looms close, her breath hot and sour as she breathes in my face. She’s been drinking. Her lipstick is smeared and makes her look like a deranged clown. “Miss me?”
I don’t answer as I test their grip. Too tight.
Something rough scrapes against my wrist—rope.
My world narrows to the scrape of the fiber against my skin and the feel of their hands all over me.
They’re trying to tie me up, but their drunk, uncoordinated movements mean they can’t get it right.
The rope rubs and burns, leaving a raw, angry line against my pulse point.
Fuck no.
Nobody ties me down. The panic is a wild animal in my chest. I thrash hard, getting one arm free, and my fist connects with someone’s jaw.
A satisfying yelp from Liz, but it costs me as Rebecca’s fist slams into my cheek.
A sharp, ringing sound fills my left ear.
My teeth cut into the inside of my mouth, and the coppery taste of my own blood floods my tongue.
Whitney is wearing something of Weller’s. The scent is faded, but it’s his and it’s on her. It’s like a switch flips in my head, from survival to something far colder and deadlier.
How dare she wear his scent like a trophy.
If I hadn’t made it clear enough, he’s MINE.
“Not so tough now, are you?” Rebecca sneers, her face screwed into an ugly expression.
Katie spits on me, and it lands on my cheek. The feel of it sliding down my face makes my stomach lurch. “Did you really think you could break into our home and attack us without consequences?”
I told you to leave town.
“You fucked up my face,” Liz adds through gritted teeth. “And my hand might never work right again.”
Good.
I stay silent. Let them talk. My mind is a machine as it hunts for opportunities. Four against one. I have to consider the collar. Whitney might have a remote in her pocket. They’re drunk and sloppy. That’s my advantage.
“You know what?” Katie pulls out scissors. The metallic snip-snip sound next to my ear is unnervingly loud. “Let’s make her ugly.”
She grabs a fistful of my hair and starts hacking at chunks while I thrash.
I feel the whisper-light touch of loose pieces falling across my cheek and onto the bed.
Each snip sends a chill down my spine that has nothing to do with pain.
She gets three or four handfuls before I am able to jerk my head away.
It’s just hair. Just hair. Just hair. The mantra doesn’t stop the violation from seeping in.
But it feels like just one more thing taken from me against my will.
Whitney fumbles with a huge kitchen knife as she struggles with the bandage on her hand but manages to get a grip. The blade catches the light, and I wonder if I will make it out of here.
“Did you think you would get away with it?” she asks, tracing the blade along my jaw. The steel is freezing cold against my skin. “They were mine for five years. I was attached.”
Attached.
She presses harder until warm blood runs toward my ear. The sting barely registers. “Most of the time, they were perfectly obedient. Then you steal Weller and convince Daddy to take the rest of them away from me too?”
She struggles to pull out her phone, casting to the screen on the wall. “Want to see what you missed?”
I glance at the screen for half a second. Katie with Freddie, her hands in his golden curls while she—
No.
My stomach heaves. I look away. It feels like a major violation of his privacy. But I can’t unhear the sounds.
Don’t listen. Don’t let it in.
Every sound is another splash of gasoline on my inferno of rage. Each moan and grunt makes my muscles tighten.
“Look how good they are together,” Whitney narrates, shoving my face down and forcing me to look. Her nails dig into my scalp. “This was what, three months ago, Katie?”
“Four,” Katie corrects, grabbing another handful of my hair, and then I see pieces fall. “Right after that charity thing.”
“Their fathers and I have already worked everything out,” Whitney says. “They agree I’m the best match and the future mother of their children. This is just a little bump in the road. The Montgomery name plus theirs? It’s the only acceptable outcome.”
Another clip begins to play on the screen. She’s with all of them now. I squeeze my eyes together, but she claws at me to force them open. Her nails leave burning trails across my eyelids. “I don’t want you to miss the show,” she whispers.
But my mind is elsewhere as my lungs seize, the air in the room going toxic and unbreathable. Hot bile surges up my esophagus. My throat constricts, and I vomit violently onto the floor.
“Oh my god!” Katie shrieks, jumping back. “She fucking puked everywhere!”
“You disgusting bitch.” Whitney grabs my face, fingers digging into my cheeks. “You don’t like this? Wait until you see what I made Owen do to Freddie.”
Please, no more. I can’t take it.
My sweet, broken boys.
Pulling a remote from somewhere, she says, “Daddy left this in his office. Ten levels of fun.”
She presses it, and electricity blanks my mind. The world dissolves into a screech of white static. My muscles seize, trying to tear themselves from the bone.
“They hate you.” I barely get the words out before Liz slaps me. Hard.
Another shock. Higher. My back arches off the bed. Brain scrambled. Can’t think of anything but the pain.
Rebecca yanks my hair, jerking my head back. Katie finds Weller’s mark and pinches the tender skin, then twists it. I scream before I can stop myself.
“It’s a good thing Weller has a really high pain tolerance,” Whitney says, “because it’s going to hurt like a bitch when you die.”
The video changes. New sounds, new bodies. I’m drowning in the violation of the boys I’ve loved all my life.
They were violated because you weren’t here, an ugly voice in my head hisses. I could’ve saved them from her all along.
I force myself to snap out of it.
Rebecca’s fingers clamp around my throat, crushing my windpipe. No air. “Want me to finish her, Whit?”
“Not yet.” Rebecca lets up, and I gasp, lungs burning.
“We need to hurry up,” Liz says with a slight tremble. “Someone could—”
“No one’s coming,” Whitney assures her. “The guard’s busy fucking that new nurse in the supply closet. And I made Daddy an extra special protein shake tonight. He’s fast asleep.”
The apple doesn’t fall far.
“You know what the best part is?” Whitney’s breath is hot against my face. “After you’re dead, they’ll be mine for good. No more interruptions. No more distractions.”
Katie laughs, but it’s high and cruel.
Whitney continues, “They won’t even remember you existed.”
And then I see it. The opening. The moment of opportunity Megan taught me to look for.
Whitney leans in too close, knife wavering. Her focus is split between the knife, the video, and her need to watch me suffer.
Weller’s voice in my head: “Come back to me, Bianca.”
I thrust my head forward and feel the cartilage of Rebecca’s nose crunch against my forehead.
She cries out, blood gushing. Her hands fly to her face, releasing my throat.
I lunge, sinking my teeth into Whitney’s arm.
Hard. The taste of her blood makes me gag, but I bite harder, channeling every ounce of rage into the pressure of my jaw.
She shrieks and drops the knife.
Katie dives for it. My heel slams into her back. A wet crack echoes in the small room as she lands face-first into the bedside table and doesn’t move again.
“You killed Katie!” Liz shrieks, releasing my leg to go check on her. I roll off the bed, grabbing her ankle. She falls hard, and I leap onto her back, locking my forearm under her chin before she realizes what is happening.
Ezra would be proud of this hold.
“Let her go!” Whitney scrambles for the knife but can’t grip it properly with her fucked-up hands.
Rebecca, nose streaming blood, hits me everywhere she can reach in order to break my hold, but I’m not letting go.
I flip us, using Liz as a shield, and squeeze harder.
I feel the moment her body gives up. Rebecca lunges.
Her nails rake my arms. We grapple, and she slams my head into the floor.
My skull rattles against the tile, and the room explodes. For a minute, I’m just floating.
Whitney’s stabbing at me, but it’s sloppy and ineffective. The blade catches my arm, and the tip sinks in just enough to wake me up.
Rebecca’s tiring. Probably not used to this kind of fight. When she slams my head again, I go limp, faking it. She shifts her weight, and I snap my legs up, locking my thighs around her throat. She claws at my legs, but I just squeeze harder.
Whitney raises the knife, and I twist at the last second, pulling Rebecca into her path.
The knife sinks into Rebecca’s back with a sickening wet sound.
Everything stops.
Whitney pulls the knife free, staring at the blood. She hit something important. “F-fuck! Becca, oh my God. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—“
Rebecca gurgles, blood trickling from her mouth. Whitney drops beside her, trying uselessly to stop the bleeding.
“This is all your fault!” Whitney screams, and she’s barely recognizable as the girl I once loved like a sister.
I launch myself at her. We tumble to the floor, and the knife skitters away. We’re both fighting for dominance, hitting and clawing. Weller’s scent is a constant, maddening trigger. Her horrible videos are still playing in the background.
She crawls for the knife. But I’m on her back before she gets there, holding tight as she tries to buck me off.
I reach for the knife. She gets there first and starts slashing blindly behind her. “Just die already!”
I bite her shoulder. She cries out, flipping onto her back, and loses her grip on the knife. I snatch it up.
I don’t wait. I sink the knife into her chest. “This is for Freddie.”
A gasp escapes her lips.
I pull it out and push it in again.
“For Owen.” She tries to speak, but only blood comes out.
“For Tristan.”
“For Weller.”
“For me.”
Her eyes are fading, but she’s still looking at me. I lean close, my voice breaking. “I loved you, Whit. Maybe I was the only one who ever really did.”
Her eyes well with tears. For a heartbeat, I see her—the girl who taught me everything about hair and makeup, who cried in my arms when her father chose work over another birthday, who held my hand at my Grandma’s funeral.
My best friend.
The knife goes in one last time—gentle, almost. A mercy.
The light leaves her eyes.
I look around at the carnage, but I can’t really process what just happened. My pajamas are soaked with blood—mine and theirs. My body is shaking violently from the adrenaline.
Red lights flash from the ceiling, painting the room in crimson pulses.
The knife falls from my numb fingers, clattering to the floor.
What will Dr. Montgomery do to me now?
I killed his daughter.
The thought should terrify me, but I feel nothing.
My wounds throb in time with my heartbeat, but the pain feels unimportant. I collapse and press my cheek against the freezing cold floor. The chill is a shocking, grounding sensation against my hot skin.
It’s over. They’re dead.
I close my eyes as footsteps thunder down the hallway toward my room. Guards shout and doors slam.
But for the first time since I returned to Emerald Hills, I feel something close to peace.