27. Tristan #2
“You fucking smell like them,” Whitney snarls. “I can smell all four of them on you. Did you fuck them?”
My blood turns molten. Even through a phone speaker, hearing Whitney talk about our scent on Bianca makes something primitive roar to life in my chest.
The confirmation that others can smell us on her… is just too fucking good.
Aside from the terrible circumstances.
Bianca keeps her expression blank. Bored, even. “That’s quite an imagination you have there.”
Whitney’s grip tightens. “You’re desperate enough to let bonded alphas fuck you?”
“Desperate? Which one of us had to drug alphas to make them want her, Whitney?”
Fuck. Yes. My savage, brilliant omega going straight for the throat.
Whitney explodes. “You’re fucking dead. They’re mine. They’ve always been mine.”
“Are they?” Bianca tilts her head with deadly calm. “Funny, I heard you don’t mind lending them out.”
That’s when Whitney’s composure completely shatters. Something clicks behind her eyes. “How do you—” She cuts herself off, studying Bianca with dawning realization.
Bianca gives her the most devastating smile I’ve ever seen.
“You’re delusional if you think this means anything,” Whitney snarls. “You’re a broken toy, Bianca. An omega who’ll never be whole. They might fuck you out of pity, but they’ll never want someone as damaged as you.”
Rage floods through me, so hot and fast I see red. How dare she call the woman who is our everything damaged.
But Bianca... Christ, Bianca just rises calmly and lets her robe drop to the floor.
She’s completely naked, with perfect curves and soft skin marked by evidence of our claiming. Bruises on her hips where we gripped her and marks scattered across her throat, breasts, and body like a map of our madness.
My cock goes painfully hard at the sight. Beside me, Owen makes a sound that’s half growl, half moan. The scent of alpha arousal floods the basement.
On screen, Bianca spins slowly, displaying every mark we left on her body—evidence of our desperate need.
“Does it look like they give a fuck that I’m damaged?”
That’s my girl. My fierce, fearless, perfect omega.
Then all hell breaks loose.
Whitney lunges, hands going for Bianca’s throat. But our omega is faster, grabbing Whitney’s wrist and twisting until something pops—that must be how she injured her hand.
And then… fuck me, then Bianca jumps on her, completely nude and absolutely feral.
Whitney looks up from her phone, studying our faces with sick satisfaction.
“You’re all hard,” she observes with vicious delight. “Disgusting. I wonder if you will find it so arousing when I strap her to a table in front of your cages and let twenty alphas run through her while you watch.”
The rage flooding through us is so intense that the air itself feels combustible.
Whitney’s smile is evil. She picks up one of her favorite behavior correction tools: a metal baton crackling with electricity.
“Now, let’s fix your little problem.”
The first shock hits Owen, and he roars, body convulsing against the cage bars. The smell of burned flesh fills the air.
Another shock. Freddie’s scream echoes off the walls.
“They can fuck her to death for all I care,” Whitney is yelling now, approaching my cage.
The electricity tears through my nervous system, but I force myself to stay upright—to meet her eyes.
Weller takes his shock without making a sound.
Whitney steps back, breathing hard.
She dials a number on her cell phone.
A few seconds later, she says, “Daddy, get over here right now!”
Her voice echoes off the concrete, shrill and desperate.
“I need those injections!”
She starts pacing again, phone pressed to her ear.
“Daddy, please. They’ve been off them too long.”
A pause.
“Fuck your meetings! I need you here! They’re looking at me like they want to kill me!”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Fine. But hurry.”
She ends the call, turning back to us with wild eyes.
“He’s coming,” she announces. “And when he gets here, we’re going to get you working properly again.”
She approaches the cages again, that electric baton still sparking.
“But until then, let’s talk about tonight’s little get-together. About what you’re going to do to me in front of all those important investors.”
My stomach lurches.
“You’re going to make me come while they watch and applaud,” Whitney says in a saccharine voice.
She points the baton at Owen with her good hand.
“And you’re going to convince me you love it. Because if you don’t...”
The threat hangs in the air between us.
“That video of Bianca? It’s going viral. Every alpha in the city will know exactly where to find her. And exactly how much fun they can have breaking her.”
The thought of other alphas seeing Bianca naked, seeing her marked by us, wanting to claim what’s ours...
“No.” Owen’s voice is barely human. “You fucking won’t.”
“Those marks on her body?” Whitney continues with a sickening satisfaction in her voice. “They’ll know she likes it rough.”
“I’ll kill you,” I promise, and I’ve never meant anything more in my life. “I’ll fucking kill you if you hurt her.”
The others have the same murderous expressions on their faces, and if she made the mistake of releasing us right now, we’d end her—consequences be damned.
Whitney laughs, and the sound is a nail in my eardrum.
“I could have her arrested. Committed. Disappeared. And there’s nothing any of you could do to stop me.”
Footsteps on the stairs cut through the suffocating tension. Montgomery appears, medical bag in hand, looking perfectly composed despite his daughter’s blood-splattered appearance.
“Whitney,” he says with barely concealed irritation. “What happened to your hand?”
“Fix them,” she demands. “Fix them right now.”
Montgomery’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He sets down his bag, pulling on latex gloves like this is a normal office visit.
“The injections can wait until you explain why you look like you’ve been in a street fight.”
“I don’t have time for this! They’re?—“
“Fine, Whitney.” His voice cuts through her hysteria like a scalpel. “Sit down. Be quiet. Let me work.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but something in his expression makes her snap it shut.
“We can’t have variables affecting tonight’s presentation,” he says with detachment, approaching with a syringe filled with clear liquid.
He draws closer with the injection, and I know our window of clarity is about to slam shut.
But as the needle slides in and the chemical poison floods my body, I hold onto one thought.
Whitney thinks she’s won…