Chapter 23 Bianca
BIANCA
I’m gonna kill him.
The bathroom door flies open as I drag Owen behind me, the handcuff biting into my wrist. We stumble down the hall to the entrance to find five men standing in the doorway.
Dr. Montgomery stands in the front, flanked by the alphas’ fathers, all wearing identical expressions of undisguised disgust as their eyes land on me.
Owen’s dad looks at where we are handcuffed together, and he seems to get even more pissed off.
I wonder if Tristan’s father has told them I slapped him. Even so, I really don’t understand why they hate me so much, but the feeling is mutual. These are the men who raised my alphas to be the broken, beautiful disasters they are.
I resist the urge to touch the collar around my neck, but the weight of it suddenly feels like it’s choking me. I’m property. Not a person. A fucking show pony they’re all inspecting for flaws, and I get the sense their list of defects is long.
“Ah, there you are,” Montgomery says when he spots me, his tone infuriatingly normal, as if we’re all friends meeting for brunch. “I trust you slept well?”
I don’t get this guy. Shouldn’t he be grieving? Planning a memorial? Picking out a tasteful urn for his dead daughter? But he seems completely unfazed, his composure a perfect mask.
Owen’s grip on my hand tightens, the handcuff rattling between us.
I can feel the anger vibrating through all of them.
Weller’s back is ramrod straight, wearing the most serious of serious Weller faces.
I’m starting to wonder if he ever smiles.
I think it’s one of my new goals: to make it happen, to see what his face looks like when it’s not carved from stone.
Even when he’s inside me, it’s Mr. Serious, like he doesn’t deserve to enjoy it.
Freddie has his arms crossed, his usual easy charm nowhere to be found. He’s staring at them like he’s ready to go, fingers tapping against his bicep in a rhythm that matches the pounding of my heart.
Tristan looks eager to tear their throats out one after the other, his blue eyes calculating which one to take down first. His fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s already practicing the motions.
I don’t dare look at Owen. I don’t need to see him to know what’s happening. He’s emanating murder.
“Oh yeah. Great sleep. I’m fucking refreshed,” I answer, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Nothing like being imprisoned in your dead ex-best friend’s house, who was instrumental in ruining your life, to really help you get some beauty sleep.”
“You do share your mother’s sense of humor.”
My mother. The mention of her sends an electric jolt through me. I really need to talk to my fucking mother. There’s history here I’m missing, connections I don’t understand. Why does Montgomery keep bringing her up?
Montgomery steps closer, his gaze sweeping over me. I fight the urge to step back, to show any sign that he’s getting to me. My heart hammers against my ribs, but I keep my chin up, my eyes locked on his.
“Ms. Quinn, we will do a quick evaluation this morning. Nothing invasive. My team will check your injuries and vitals.”
“I’m fine.”
“Indulge me. It’s part of our agreement.” Montgomery ushers in a small team of two to check us over, herding everyone into the large living room.
The agreement. The contract I signed to get them out of Whitney’s bullshit, but not out of their fathers’ apparently. The irony isn’t lost on me—I saved them from one prison only to trap them with me.
“Let’s take a look at that shoulder,” Montgomery says, turning to Owen. “Bullet wounds can be tricky.”
A nurse carefully removes the bandage to reveal the angry red hole in Owen’s shoulder.
It’s small, but the wound looks painful, the skin around it swollen.
Owen is a special kind of stubborn. He should be taking it easy and resting, not handcuffing me to him.
Dr. Montgomery prods at the wound with gloved fingers.
Owen doesn’t flinch, but I know it hurts. “No sign of infection. You’re lucky.”
“So I keep hearing.” The nurse cleans the wound and covers it with fresh bandages before fitting his arm into a sling to keep it immobilized, which he is not happy about. “I don’t need a damn sling.”
“Mr. West,” the nurse says, her voice firm but patient, “immobilization for the next week is crucial to prevent further tearing of the tissue. Vigorous activities are strongly discouraged.” When the nurse says vigorous activities, Owen looks at me like he’s not planning to avoid them at all.
I sigh. “Wear the sling, Owen. For me.” He grunts and reluctantly lets the nurse put it on and adjust it. I squeeze his hand.
Now that I’m not in heat anymore, it does seem spectacularly stupid that we had sex after he had been shot. We should probably take it easy for a while.
Meanwhile, all four of the alphas’ fathers are drilling holes into me. I’m not giving them my attention.
I can tell Owen’s father is mean as fuck. His eyes are similar to Owen’s, but where Owen’s make me feel cherished, his father’s look at me as though he’d like to destroy me.
Tristan’s father looks at me like I’m a cockroach he wants to squish and has none of Tristan’s mischievous charm. I feel his gaze linger a little too long. He hates that he wants to fuck me.
Badly.
Freddie’s father has the same golden boy vibe but not a single percent of Freddie’s genuine friendliness. He’s a snake with cold, dead eyes, just like the rest of them. Not to be trusted.
Weller’s father carries himself like he has an enormous stick up his ass.
He’s the king, and we’re the peasants beneath him.
Perfect looking. Handsome, but not as handsome as Weller.
He is ice cold and has probably never truly loved anyone.
When we were kids, Weller told me that his dad gave his dog away out of the blue because he got one B.
A dog he got for his eighth birthday. Weller really loved his dog and suffered from the heartbreak of it for a long time.
William would love to punish me cruelly for leading Weller astray.
“Your temperature is back to normal,” Montgomery notes, typing something into a tablet.
His fingers move with a soft tap-tap-tap of his nails against the screen, oddly rhythmic.
“The heat broke quickly—statistically anomalous for an omega of your profile. Could be attributed to acute stress response or physiological adaptation.”
He looks up from the tablet, his eyes narrowing with scientific interest. “Your body may have developed compensatory mechanisms after years without regular heat cycles. In essence, your endocrine system potentially recognized the need to terminate the heat state to preserve homeostasis.” He tilts his head, studying me.
“An omega with autonomic control over their heat cycle would be a significant discovery. The implications for omega health outcomes would be substantial.”
I blink at him, my mouth actually hanging open. What the actual fuck?
“Most omegas would find such a capability revolutionary,” he continues, completely oblivious to my shock. “I’d like to monitor your next heat cycle under controlled conditions. The survivability metrics of omegas experiencing heat distress are a primary focus of my research.”
“Survivability?” The word tumbles out of my mouth.
Montgomery nods. “My work centers on mitigating heat-related mortality and morbidity in the omega population. It’s the leading cause of preventable death in unmated omegas under thirty.”
My brain short-circuits. I glance at Owen, whose expression remains murderous, but I can see confusion there too.
This doesn’t compute. Dr. Montgomery researches how to make omegas stronger?
How to help them survive their heats? The same Dr. Montgomery who gift-wrapped my scent matches and gave them to Whitney?
Is this some kind of Jekyll and Hyde situation?
“You’ve never mentioned this before,” I say carefully, trying to reconcile these two versions of the man standing before me.
“You never asked,” Montgomery replies simply. “Though I’m surprised Whitney didn’t talk about it at all. It was the foundation of our family’s work for generations.”
Did Whitney even care about any of this, or was she just using his research for her own twisted agenda?
I suddenly realize I know absolutely nothing about what Montgomery actually does beyond the ways he’s messed with my life.
And that terrifies me more than if he were just a straightforward asshole like the other men in this room.
“Now, to business. I’ve brought your fathers here to discuss the particulars of our arrangement moving forward. Everyone is aware that these four will remain in the house with you.”
Well, that’s good.
William steps forward. His resemblance to Weller is striking. “You’ll be expected to return to your previous positions immediately. The companies can’t afford any more disruption.”
Weller bristles. “No. We will not be leaving Bianca by herself all day.”
I feel like commenting on the fact that he thinks I need someone home to watch me, but I resist the urge.
“Listen to me, son. You will do what you are told, or you will face the consequences. Nothing has changed.” He pauses, his cold eyes landing on me dismissively. “The only variable that has shifted is the omega.”
He says “omega” like I’m infectious.
William takes another step toward his son, his posture radiating disapproval. “Your sentimentality is a liability, Weller. It always has been. If there’s one thing I regret, it’s not having another son—one who might have turned out to be less of a disappointment.”
I feel Weller flinch, and I don’t like that. Before I can stop myself, I take a step forward, putting myself between them. The handcuff jerks Owen along with me. “Don’t talk to him like that,” I snarl.
William’s eyes narrow, his surprise quickly replaced by contempt. “This is a family matter, girl.”