Chapter 27 #2
“You still mad about her slapping the shit out of you, Alex?” Vincent chuckles. “I have to admit there is some appeal to the girl.” Wait. When did Bianca strike Tristan’s father? It puts a different kind of target on her back, and I don’t like it.
“She’s lucky Emmett had strict orders to only use the collar for corrections, or I would’ve stomped the rabid cunt into the ground for such disrespect.”
Before I realize what is happening, Tristan is lunging across the table, cards and chips scattering as he tackles Alexander to the ground. His fist connects with his father’s face, accompanied by a loud, enraged sound that’s barely human.
“Don’t ever fucking talk about her like that.
” The guards swarm, moving to pull Tristan off his father.
I shove my chair back, standing, but only make it a few steps before my path is blocked by a wall of guards.
Owen steps forward to intercept one, but Vincent catches him with a sucker punch to his gunshot wound, causing him to fall to his knees with a wounded sound.
Freddie’s attempt ends with Charles and a guard wrenching his arms behind his back, taking him to the ground, a forearm to the back of his neck.
“This will be a lesson for all of you,” my father hisses in my ear as a guard wrenches Tristan away from Alexander.
Alexander rises slowly, straightening his jacket.
Fury pours off him and blood trickles from his split lip as he regards his son, held immobile.
Without warning, he drives his fist into Tristan’s stomach.
Once. Twice. Three times. Tristan struggles against the guard’s hold but can’t break free as his father lands blow after blow to his torso, avoiding his face.
The guard finally allows Tristan to fall to his knees and then to the ground as he clutches his middle.
“Make sure you tell the psycho this is her fault,” Alexander says, breathing heavily from the effort. “Take him to the car. We’re done here.”
Tristan’s eyes burn with hatred as he’s lifted back up and dragged toward the door, his feet barely supporting his weight.
“Your little rebellion ends now. You will fall in line, you will fulfill your obligations to this family, and you will remember who holds the power here,” Alexander announces, addressing all of us.
My father doesn’t address me as we exit the room and make our way back to the car waiting for us.
Our fathers must be eliminated. They’re a danger to all of us. But much more importantly, they’re a danger to her.
* * *
Our car approaches the estate, and my head throbs. I need to get my eyes on her and confirm she’s safe. The events of the evening have rattled me deeply.
“Has Ms. Quinn returned?” I ask the guard, a man who has manned this post for years. He’s always been professional and not an asshole like most of the guards.
“Mr. Dashwood, she arrived about an hour ago.”
Relief momentarily washes away the seething anger that’s been building under my skin. Bianca is home. Safe.
Not as safe as she could be, though.
Not as safe as I need her to be.
Tristan is breathing shallowly and keeps wincing. “I think we should hold off on sharing the Whitney lab baby bullshit with Bianca,” he says, echoing my own thoughts. “She won’t take that well.”
I glance at Owen, whose shirt is stained with fresh blood from his reopened wound.
“By not taking it well,” Freddie says with a bitter laugh, “do you mean she will more than likely take a steak knife to one or more of their necks the next time they’re in the same room with her?”
“As hot as that would be, yes.” Tristan’s face screws up in pain as the car hits a bump in the driveway while we wind around to the house.
“And the look on my father’s face after Vincent mentioned that she hit him was concerning.
He would love to strangle her, sure, but I don’t think that’s the only thing. ..”
“They’ve always viewed women as conquests. Bianca represents something they can’t have.” I grip the leather seat beneath me because I saw it too, and it wasn’t just Alexander we needed to worry about.
“It was one thing when we found out they all fucked Whitney together,” Freddie says, running a hand through his hair.
“Disturbing, but... she wasn’t ours.” His eyes meet mine, and I see my own fear reflected there.
“But even the thought of their eyes on Bianca, thinking about what they’d do to her if they could, is fucking me up. ”
“They won’t touch her,” Owen snaps. “Enough. Talking about this is making me want to go back there and murder them all.” The car rolls to a stop by the front door, and when we get inside, I don’t hear anything.
We find her in the living area near our rooms, curled up on the couch with a book resting on her chest. It reminds me of simpler times. Just the sight of her makes me breathe easier.
“Let’s get cleaned up,” I murmur, and we separate to our respective bathrooms.
I scrub my skin raw, as if I could wash away the memory of my father’s words.
Bianca deserves to know everything, but telling her about our fathers’ plans would push her past a breaking point. Whitney did enough while she was alive. The last thing we need is to let her torment Bianca from the grave.
When I return to the living room, Bianca is awake and has Owen and Tristan seated on the couch while she grills them.
“You’re going to tell me everything that happened,” she demands, pacing.
“It’s nothing,” Tristan insists.
“Why are you wearing a shirt then? You walk around here half-naked all the time because you have to make sure you’re completely dry before you put clothes on, but now you’re covered up from head to toe, and you keep making a face like you’re in pain.”
“And you,” she says, pointing at Owen, “there’s blood on your shirt. Why is it bleeding again?”
“Princess, it’s all good.”
“Bullshit.” She moves toward him, her small frame tense. “Why are you dickheads lying to me? Take your shirts off and let me see.”
Tristan sighs. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just a little disagreement with the old man.”
Bianca’s eyes narrow dangerously. Before Tristan can stop her, she grabs the bottom of his shirt and lifts it, revealing the dark bruises already forming across his ribs and stomach.
There’s a sharp intake of breath.
“A little disagreement?” she whispers, fingers hovering over the discolored skin. “Tristan...”
“He said something unforgivable about you. I got in a good hit. This,” he gestures to his body, “was more than worth it.”
Bianca turns to Owen, who’s trying to edge away. “And you?”
“My father gets off on inflicting pain,” Owen mutters, but she’s already reaching for him. “What else is there to say?”
“Both of you, bathroom, now. I need better light to see what I’m working with.”
“You can kiss it better,” Tristan suggests with a wink, and Owen smirks.
I watch as Bianca herds them both toward the bathroom.
They tower over her as they follow along behind her.
Even if they gripe at the attention, there’s no place else they’d rather be.
It’s amazing how this tiny woman is bringing us back together again.
I honestly didn’t think we could ever be repaired after not just Whitney, but everything.
The relationships between us were too strained, even after a lifetime of growing up together.
But she’s making quick work of it.
I hear laughter from the bathroom—Bianca followed by Owen and Tristan’s deep chuckles.
“Sounds like our little nurse is getting distracted from her duties,” Freddie says with a raised eyebrow, picking up the book from the couch that Bianca had been reading.
I move toward the bathroom, drawn by curiosity and something darker, and find the door open. What I see makes my blood run hot.
Bianca is trapped between Owen and Tristan, her back pressed against Owen’s chest while Tristan crowds her from the front. Owen has his thumbs hooked into her underwear as his hands rest on her hips. Tristan has one hand cupping her chin, and the other is winding beneath her shirt.
“This isn’t fair,” she protests, but her voice is breathless. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”
“You are taking care of us.” Tristan brushes his lips against hers. “This is exactly what I need.”
Owen dips his head to her shoulder, biting down softly as she shudders. “Better than any medicine,” he rumbles against her skin.
Bianca’s eyes flutter closed, and I yank at my collar. Her pleasure is so delicious. I stand frozen in the doorway, watching as her body responds to their touch, unable to look away despite the jealousy scratching beneath my skin.
Sharing her is a constant battle within me.
My instincts scream to take her away, lock the door, and keep her all to myself.
I want to know that every sound she makes and every breath she gasps for is because of me; yet there’s an undeniable beauty in how she somehow manages to make each of us feel chosen, even when we’re sharing.
Since her heat, she’s asked me to be inside her every night when we go to bed.
The feel of her small body as I curl around her is why I haven’t been getting much sleep lately at all.
I wait until everyone passes out, even her.
“See if you can fuck me while I’m sleeping without waking me,” she’d said.
She’s a magnet for me when she’s awake, but asleep is a side just for me.
I’m obsessed with pushing into her and feeling her nipples pebble beneath my palm.
Her little moans, stutters in breathing.
I test different speeds and styles to see what she likes more.
She loves slow fucking—soft and shallow—but is also a fan of deep and dominant, me sucking bruising marks into her skin as I pin her down while she whines in her sleep, her quiet little begs music to my ears.