Chapter 8
FREDDIE
We are the worst alphas in the entire fucking universe. There’s no competition.
Three in the morning and it’s raining. The penthouse is relatively quiet except for the steady tap against the windows. Everyone’s scattered, off in their own worlds trying to wrap their heads around what our next move should be. It won’t be easy getting into the building.
I’m sprawled on the couch, staring at the rain streaking down the glass, making the city lights blur and dance.
Bianca doesn’t leave my head for a second.
Not one fucking second.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Between the rain and Owen’s fists, I’ve got some pretty good white noise going.
He’s been pounding away in the gym since we got back.
Hasn’t stopped for hours. Just the steady rhythm of flesh against leather, the occasional grunt when he hits too hard.
I close my eyes, but all I see is Bianca on the floor. That collar. Her body convulsing.
Owen’s beating himself up for what happened with the collar, and I am too. We should’ve known they would punish her if we fucked up. That’s the most basic play in the control handbook—threaten what someone cares about. And we walked right into it.
“Fucking useless,” the words are a rough sound against my palms as I press them into my eyes.
We’re currently banned from electronics.
No phones, no computers, nothing that would let us interfere with whatever the fuck they’re planning next.
Some freedom this is. We can’t go anywhere without a guard breathing down our necks like we’re the ones who are goddamn criminals. Tristan’s already plotting, of course.
“I’ll snag a phone or laptop at the office tomorrow.” The promise had come from Tristan earlier, his gaze distant as if he were already mapping the possible ways to break in.
Bianca can’t go into heat in there.
I sit up abruptly, running a hand through my hair. I don’t know how we stayed as calm as we did today. Maybe because we knew blowing it would mean cutting the visit short, but fuck. What the hell is Montgomery planning for her?
I can’t stand this. The waiting. The not knowing. How the fuck do we get her out? We weren’t able to save ourselves, but there’s no way our girl is sitting in there for an entire year. She deserves better than that. Better than us, probably.
She’s the bravest person I’ve ever met.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her face and my chest feels hollow.
What she said earlier cuts deeper than any knife could.
“You guys had five years to figure it out. Five years to find me and make it right. Five fucking years of fucking women who aren’t me while I learned how to take care of my own shit all by my little self.
So the way I see it… none of you have earned the right to tell me what to do. ”
We utterly failed her and we still are. Somehow Bianca ended up exactly where we feared she would... caught in their web. Walking away from her while she was on that floor made me physically ill.
So I let the rain take me to a different memory.
Junior year. Spring practice.
Bianca came to most of my practices back then, tucked into the bleachers with one of those romance novels she loved.
Third row from the top, far left corner.
Always the same spot. Every time I caught a pass, her head snapped up and she cheered.
She was so fucking cute. It wasn’t like the rehearsed chants Whitney and the cheerleaders did.
Bianca’s excitement was real. Like I’d just won the Super Bowl instead of completing a practice drill.
That day, the storm hit fast. One second we were running plays, the next everyone was scrambling for cover. Players sprinted for the locker room while cheerleaders shrieked about their hair getting ruined.
I found her sitting on the hood of my car in the parking lot, completely soaked. Just waiting for me.
“You’re insane,” I said, already pulling off my letterman jacket to wrap around her shoulders.
“Couldn’t find you.” She shrugged like it explained everything. Like, of course, she’d sit in a downpour rather than leave without me.
The heat in my car fogged the windows within minutes. She was shivering so hard her teeth chattered, her mascara smudged under her eyes.
“I’m ruining your seats.” She looked sheepish, water pooling beneath her on the leather.
“Don’t care.” And I didn’t. Not about the seats, not about anything but the way the droplets were sliding down her collarbone.
She started peeling everything off, struggling with the wet fabric. There was no hesitation in her movements.
“It’s just like wearing a swimsuit, right?” she said when she was down to her bra and underwear, both white cotton and nearly transparent from the rain.
Hell no, it wasn’t like a swimsuit. This was Bianca in my car, in her underwear, trusting me completely.
She was everything I’d wanted but had been too much of a chickenshit to ask for.
I remember noticing the curve of her waist, the goosebumps rising on her skin, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath.
She grabbed an extra practice jersey from the backseat and pulled it on. It swallowed her whole, and something inside me roared at seeing her in my number. MILLER stretched across her back.
She looked like mine.
Her book was destroyed, pages stuck together and ink bleeding everywhere, turning the words into watercolor smudges.
“Was it any good?”
She blushed then, a deep pink spreading across her cheeks. “Yeah. It was um… really spicy.”
The way she said spicy and the way she bit her lip right after had me leaning in without thinking. She didn’t pull back. I could smell the rain on her skin, see the droplets still clinging to her eyelashes. The air between us went electric.
Then thunder cracked right above us. We both jumped, the spell broken, and laughed at ourselves.
I should’ve just kissed her.
A strange but freeing feeling spreads through me suddenly. I can’t place it at first, but then I realize it’s Whitney. Her bond is gone. Completely.
Just like that.
“You guys feel that?” The question is a raw rasp from the doorway. Owen stands there, sweat-soaked and breathing hard. His knuckles are split open, blood smeared across his hands.
I sit up slowly, the leather couch creaking beneath me. “Whitney’s bond is gone.”
The soft click of a door opening draws my attention. Tristan emerges from his room, barefoot in sweatpants, hair mussed. “So it wasn’t just me,” his voice is gravelly with sleep. “I thought I was imagining things.”
Weller emerges from the study with a cup of coffee, looking like he hasn’t slept in days. “What’s happening?”
Right. He wouldn’t know.
Tristan moves to the bar, the clink of ice against glass sharp in the quiet room. “The bitch is gone,” he announces, pulling out a bottle. “I think this calls for celebration.”
I’m not really in the mood for drinking, but when he pours one for all of us and holds it up with a “To Bianca,” I feel I have no choice but to partake.
To Bianca is damn right.
“Didn’t Montgomery say it would fade gradually without contact?” I remind them, staring into my glass. The amber liquid catches the light from the windows. This felt pretty instantaneous.
“Maybe there was an accident,” Owen suggests, but his voice is uncertain. He flexes his damaged hands. “Car crash? Plane—”
Tristan steeples his fingers, his expression turning sharp. “Or maybe someone killed her.”
My first thought would be Bianca, but she’s locked up in Montgomery’s facility. Not sure how she would manage that.
A knock cuts through our thoughts. Weller answers it, shoulders tense. The guard holds up his phone. “Mr. Miller. Your father.”
My father never calls. Especially not at three in the morning. I take the phone and hit speaker, something cold churning in my gut.
“Yeah?”
“Are you boys stable?” His voice is clipped.
“What do you mean?”
“Your omega is dead. I’m calling to see if you’re experiencing any kind of reaction.”
My heart stops. Bianca?
“Whitney,” he clarifies, and I can breathe again. “And three of her friends were found in Emmett’s facility. It was a bloodbath. Gonna be a mess to clean up.”
Had to be Bianca. “Do you know what happen—”
“I’ll send a car in the morning and we’ll have you boys taken into the office to be looked over.”
“Wait—”
The line goes dead. The guard takes the phone and leaves. For a long moment, none of us speak. The rain fills the silence, harder now, lashing against the glass.
“Princess.” Owen crouches on the ground and covers his face with his hands, blood still seeping from his knuckles. “What the fuck is Montgomery going to do to her?”
“My guess is they went after her and underfuckingestimated how much she hates them.” A dark admiration colors Tristan’s tone. “He could spin it as self-defense if he’s motivated.”
“I doubt he’ll bring attention to the facility. I suspect he’ll cover it up.” Weller is sitting, unmoving. “Bianca’s definitely alive, but we need to move now. We’ll get her out and run.”
“Our fathers will know the second we leave the building,” Tristan says, touching his neck where the trackers sit under our skin. “We need to move fast.”
“First, we need to get out of this penthouse before they try and lock us down,” Weller says, already on his feet.
Tristan nods and points at me. “Freddie, you fake a seizure. The guard will come in—he’s trained for medical.”
“Then we take him down,” Owen adds, flexing his damaged hands.
“I’ll get his phone and keys,” Weller says. “Then we hit the garage.”
They all look at me.
“Ready?” Tristan asks.
Thunder cracks outside as I move to the center of the room and give a thumbs up.
“He’ll come in fast, focused on you,” Tristan says.
“And I take him down.” Owen moves to his position behind the door.
“We have maybe ten minutes before someone notices,” Weller says.
“And then?”
“We call Winston first. See if he knows anyone who can get these trackers out.”
The lights flicker once, twice.
I think of Bianca in that collar. Bianca facing down four people who wanted to hurt her. Bianca waiting for me in the rain.
“Let’s do this.”
I drop to the floor and put on the best show of my life.