Chapter 10
BIANCA
Whitney used to paint my nails black because she said it made me look dangerous.
Now her blood is caked under those same nails, and I can’t stop thinking about the irony while whatever drugs they pumped into me make the ceiling spin lazy circles above my head.
Muffled voices drift my way, and I should probably pay attention, but I keep thinking about Whitney teaching me how to do winged eyeliner in her bedroom. Her room always smelled like bubblegum lip gloss and the fruity body spray she loved from that store in the mall.
“You have to be precise,” she’d said, tongue poking out while some boy band crooned from her stereo. “One wrong move and you look like a raccoon.”
And now she’s dead.
My new best friend at age seven. Her dad brought her to our neighborhood barbecue, and she’d marched up, ketchup smeared across one cheek, declaring right then that I was hers.
Weekends at her place were cupcakes and cherry Coke.
We’d steal her dad’s medical journals from his office and giggle over the anatomical diagrams. At thirteen, we planned our lives out in neon gel pen.
Then came high school. Whitney discovered how magnetic she was. Head cheerleader, queen bee, the kind of laugh that scrambled boys’ brains. By sixteen, she had a whole court to orbit her.
Now Whitney’s on a slab somewhere with stab wounds I put there using the same hands that curled her hair for prom.
I killed her.
Should I be horrified? Sick with guilt? Maybe. Maybe that will hit eventually.
“—got her good, I’m telling you.” A woman’s voice, closer than before. “Molly needed twelve stitches.”
I keep my breathing even while someone dabs at my arms, face, and legs. It stings.
“The screamer?”
“That’s the one, Letty. Tried to claw Molly’s eyes out during morning meds.”
A low snort. “Thank God she’s leaving Thursday.”
“You see the photos, though?” The younger voice is almost giddy. “The estate where she’s going for her trial? Looks like an actual castle.”
“With gargoyles,” another voice jumps in. “Total fairy tale shit.”
“More like a horror movie,” one mutters. “She got selected for a first reveal.”
First reveal? What the fuck is a first reveal? Sounds vaguely pornographic and deeply unpleasant.
“That pack must want an omega bad.”
“They’ve been waiting forever, requirements out the ass, and she met them.”
“Rich people are so weird.”
Hands prod at my bandages. I don’t so much as flinch, even when they get close to where it really hurts.
I want to listen.
“Speaking of trouble. What about this one? Weren’t they supposed to move her today for a drug trial?”
Drug trial?
The hell? Pretty sure my contract says no forced drugs. I was firm on that after everything the guys went through. I’m not about to be anyone’s pet.
“Still are. Can’t stall her heat anymore. Dr. Montgomery wants her cleaned up before transport, best we can. We’ll have to do something with this hair.” Fingers lift my hair. I want to bite, but I keep still.
“But she killed his daughter.”
“Not our business, and remember what you signed, honey.”
“You ever peek at her file? I caught a video of her shooting a buck out in the woods. Field dressed it right there, bare hands, blood everywhere. Not exactly omega behavior.”
How the fuck did Montgomery get footage of me hunting?
Unease creeps in. How much does he know about the things I’ve done?
“Where was that even from?”
“No clue, but the file’s thick. She’s been a patient since she was a kid.”
Unwilling fucking patient.
“Don’t you think it’s weird Dr. Montgomery’s in today? He seemed normal when I passed him in the hall earlier.”
“Whitney’s been unstable for a while. Maybe he saw it coming. She did drug him before breaking in with her little friends.”
“Still…”
“We don’t get paid to ask questions. Pass me the suture kit.”
I wake up in a different room. Maybe the same one I started in. It’s empty except for me and the bed I’m in. I reach up and find the collar still in place.
My hand drifts to my hair. It feels almost weightless. Barely shoulder length now. I feel weird. I try to remember if it’s ever been this short. I don’t think so.
“Good morning, Ms. Quinn.” I gasp as Dr. Montgomery’s voice comes over a speaker in the room. “I trust you’re doing much better now.”
I stare at the ceiling but don’t answer. Let him talk to himself.
“The breach last night was… unfortunate. Your wounds have been treated. None are life-threatening.” No emotion. Not a flicker of grief for his own daughter. Just a clinical report. “You’ll be transported to the preserve this afternoon. The helicopter ride is approximately one hour.”
Business as usual, then.
How are there no repercussions for four dead bodies?
“Upon arrival, you’ll receive further instruction and your supply pack before release.” A pause. “All suppressants have been discontinued. It’s only a matter of time before your body presents naturally.”
My skin prickles. This is it.
“The alphas participating in the trial have been vetted,” he drones. “Each signed explicit behavior agreements and passed psychological evaluations.”
Right. Because a piece of paper and a shrink have ever stopped an alpha from taking what they want.
“Tonight, you’ll meet the participants at dinner. A formal introduction before release.”
My body goes rigid. “Dinner? Like a date?”
“Think of it as an opportunity to assess your pursuers.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. I guess it could be worse... not a bad thing to know the wolves before I hit the woods.
“Fine. And the collar? Are you going to take it off?”
“The collar is for monitoring only. It will remain for the duration of your stay, but no one will have access to it after you land at the preserve.”
Sure.
Whitney lit me up like a Christmas tree last night, and I’m not looking forward to a repeat.
“Someone will come for you shortly,” Montgomery says.
I close my eyes, willing the pounding in my head to vanish, and wait.