17. Bianca
BIANCA
The black car pulls up to the familiar glass tower, and my stomach begins performing a gymnastics routine. The driver escorts me all the way to the elevator… Weller’s orders, no doubt, and my palms grow damp against the gift bag as I rise toward the penthouse.
Winston had been awake for longer stretches today, trying to talk, which exhausted him, but his eyes were clear. Focused. The doctors are optimistic tomorrow will be even more productive for him.
I grabbed a quick shower in his tiny bathroom, washing off the hospital smell and stress sweat.
Now I’m clean but nervous as hell, wearing an old Emerald Hills High hoodie and black leggings.
My hair hangs loose and damp down my back, air-drying because I couldn’t be bothered with more than finger-combing it.
The truth is, I feel like I’m eighteen again.
It’s like slipping into clothes that don’t fit anymore—this version of me that used to exist, all soft and breathless anticipation.
The woman who can field dress a deer and has been sleeping in the woods for half a decade doesn’t recognize this girl who checks her reflection twice, hoping they’ll still see what’s good in me.
Five years of building walls, learning to survive, becoming someone who doesn’t need anyone—and one conversation with Weller this morning cracked me wide open, exposing parts of myself I thought were dead and buried.
Pathetic.
The penthouse elevator is all mirrors and soft lighting, but it feels like a countdown to my own execution. The floor numbers tick by too fast.
Their scents linger in the enclosed space—faint but unmistakable. My pulse quickens, and I feel hot. Too hot. My nipples tighten against my bra, breath growing shallow without permission. Warmth pools low in my belly. Fuck. My body is warning me I’ve made a mistake coming here.
The door opens and…
No scent blockers tonight.
No more hiding how fucking delicious they smell.
Everything crashes over me at once. Honey and cedar from Freddie, making my mouth water.
Burnt amber and vanilla from Tristan, rich and seductive.
Blackcurrant and warm spice from Owen, dangerous and possessive.
Weller’s teakwood and bergamot, dominant and comforting.
And underneath it all, the disturbing rose tinge that doesn’t belong.
I can’t stab her soon enough.
A slow ache builds between my legs.
Get it to-fucking-gether.
“There’s our favorite girl,” Freddie says, turning to greet me with that smile I’ve been running from in my nightmares for years. “Hope you’re a little hungry—we ordered a lot of food.”
But now I can see the fractures in it. He’s wearing jeans and a white button-down, sleeves rolled up to show strong forearms.
Our favorite girl. Already sinking their possessive little fingertips in, I see.
The hell with dinner. He looks good enough to eat.
“Brought you something,” I manage, walking over and holding out the gift bag.
His eyebrows rise as he reaches inside, pulling out a white ceramic mug with the Emerald Hills Hospital logo printed in green. He turns it in his hands, examining it like it’s much more interesting than it is.
“So you can always remember the time you stalked me while my brother lay in a coma,” I say sweetly, while looking up at him.
Freddie throws his head back and laughs, the sound rich and genuine and so familiar it takes my breath away. “It’s perfect. My new favorite mug.”
The way he’s looking at me like I hung the moon is dangerous and doing things to my insides.
“Seriously?” Owen grunts. “She gets you a gift and I get assaulted?”
He’s jealous over… a mug?
I roll my eyes. “Maybe don’t kidnap people next time.”
“Noted,” Tristan says, pushing away from the windows and moving toward me like a lion tracking dinner.
He’s the best at hiding it—his mask is nearly perfect, but I can see the tension he carries in the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his movements are just a fraction too controlled, not nearly as nonchalant as before.
What did they do to him that he’s learned to bury it so deep?
“Though you did seem to enjoy the violence.”
I feel myself blushing because he’s not wrong. I did enjoy it. I also enjoyed the shock in their eyes when I fought back, the way they both looked at me like I’d just become infinitely more enticing.
They like that I can fight back.
“Dinner?” Weller suggests.
I practically launch myself toward the dining table when I spot the familiar red and white checkered boxes. Gigi’s . My heart does this annoying little flutter because they remembered . They still remember my favorite pizza in the entire world.
I claim a seat and immediately grab a slice, not bothering to wait for plates or napkins or any notion of civilized bullshit. The cheese burns my tongue, but I don’t care—it tastes like home, like lazy Saturday afternoons at the waterhole when we were kids and everything was simple.
Freddie chooses the chair beside me with an amused grin.
They settle themselves around me like it’s a competition of who can get closest—Freddie to my right, his shoulder occasionally brushing mine, Owen to my left, close enough that the heat from his body warms my skin.
Tristan sits across from me, stretching his long legs until his foot brushes mine under the wooden table.
Weller is at the head of the table, positioned so he can see all of us. So he can watch me. And I feel his eyes all over me.
God, they look good.
All grown up… and so manly-looking now. The softness of boyhood is gone.
It’s obnoxious. I’m sick in the head. They are bonded to another omega. They can’t escape because they all have supervillain fathers, and their father-in-law is a mad scientist, apparently. Yet, we are sitting here pretending like everything is normal…
I feel myself about to spiral.
They aren’t mine. They can’t be mine.
She’s coming home soon.
And she’s going to take them away from me again.
Think about something else.
Think about anything fucking else.
“I can’t afford to replace the rest of your stuff, sorry,” I say, waving at the pristine penthouse that you can’t even tell was destroyed yesterday. “But I can hit up some thrift stores when I have time. Find you some really special pieces.”
Freddie chokes on his pizza. “Oh god, yes. Please terrorize Weller’s aesthetic sensibilities.”
“I’d love nothing more,” I laugh, warming to the idea.
Even Weller’s mouth twitches. “Anything you do will be an improvement.”
“I appreciate that, Weller, because it looks like a serial killer’s home. All clean and soulless.” I tear off a piece of crust. “Very ‘I keep my victims’ heads in the freezer’ vibes.”
Owen barks out a laugh. “Damn, Princess. Tell us how you really feel.”
“I’m just saying, normal people show some signs of life. Books lying around. Maybe a houseplant dying slowly in the corner.” I gesture around the immaculate space. “This place screams ‘I have no personality and possibly eat people.’”
Tristan’s foot hooks around my ankle. The contact catches me off guard, and my eyes snap to his.
“To be fair,” he says, a wicked smile spreading across his face, “we might eat… you .”
Oh.
Those words, in that devilishly dark tone of his, hit the air like a bomb.
Breathe, Bianca. Warmth floods my cheeks and neck as four sets of eyes that see too much lock onto me, and I feel naked and exposed, like every filthy fantasy I’ve ever had about them is written across my skin in neon letters.
I can’t look at them.
Need more air.
My fingers tighten around my wine glass, and I take a long sip, using the motion to hide behind the rim while my brain short-circuits.
The silence stretches, their scents thickening in the air, and I can feel their stares burning into my skin. My pulse thumps so hard I’m surprised they can’t hear it.
Oh god, they probably can .
“How’s Winston doing, by the way?” Freddie asks, his voice deep but gentle, bumping my shoulder with his like he’s trying to ground me.
“He’s awake.” I smile and grab another piece of pizza. “Come see him in the next few days. He’s starting to talk.”
“We definitely will.”
“His recovery trajectory is promising,” Weller adds, straightening. “We should coordinate visits to avoid overwhelming him.”
“Good?” Owen nods to the slice in my hand.
“So fucking good,” I manage around the bite I’m chewing. I pause, thinking. “I haven’t had pizza since I left Emerald Hills. Since... my birthday.”
All conversation stops. Freddie stops chewing. Owen’s jaw goes slack. Tristan sits back like I just slapped him. Weller’s fingers tighten around his water glass.
“How is that even possible?” Freddie asks in disbelief. “Pizza was your favorite?—”
“No pizzerias in the forest,” I say with a small shrug. “Just woodland creatures and vegetables we grew.”
Owen’s eyebrows shoot up. “Woodland creatures?”
“You’ve been hunting for food?” The way Tristan says it suggests he does not find that acceptable.
“And gardening,” Freddie adds, like he’s trying to picture me with dirt under my fingernails and a garden hoe in my hands. “Aren’t you the same girl who was scared to death of bugs?”
I laugh, genuinely amused by their shock. “You get over things like that quickly when you have to. Amazing what hunger will do for your spider tolerance.”
“Jesus,” Owen mutters. “You shouldn’t have had to live like that.”
“You’ve been surviving off fucking squirrels?” Tristan’s fingers drum once against the table, a sharp staccato that makes ice crawl down my spine. “Someone’s going to pay for that.”
“Rabbits mostly, deer,” I correct with a shrug. “Squirrels are harder to catch. Really… I’m fine. It’s satisfying to provide for yourself.”
Freddie’s hands curl around the edge of the table, knuckles going white. When he looks up, his usual warmth is gone. “You never should’ve been on your ow?—”
“I learned to enjoy the lifestyle,” I interrupt.