Page 65 of Bitter Truths

I don’t fight when he throws me over his shoulder like a sack of grain. No point in wasting energy. Instead, I save my strength for whatever’s coming next.

We get in the elevator, and Tristan hits the button for the penthouse. Of course.

“I hope you’re not too attached to your shit,” I announce from my upside-down position. “I’m about to throw a fit.”

“Looking forward to it,” Owen says, sounding genuinely pleased with the prospect.

14

BIANCA

The penthouse doors open, and I’m still slung over Owen’s shoulder, thrashing and wiggling like a feral cat caught in a trap. He doesn’t seem to notice my struggles; his grip on my thighs unwavering as he strides into the room.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across one wall, showing the glittering city below. Leather furniture that looks costly dominates the space, gleaming in the soft lighting. Abstract art that screams money and zero personality hangs on walls too clean to ever know fingerprints.

Everything’s pristine… and frankly, unsettling.

This isn’t a home. It feels like a museum.

I hate it.

Strangest of all, it smells like absolutely nothing. No alpha or omega scents, no food smells, no signs of life.

Just a blank, scentless void that makes my insides twist uncomfortably.

“Why the hell is everyone covered in blood?” Freddie shoots up from one of those ridiculously expensive-looking couches, his golden curls catching the light as he moves. His face drains of color, cheeks hollowing. Those green eyes that always reminded me of summer are darting over every inch of me, cataloging, searching. “Are you okay, Bianca?”

I can’t help but fucking laugh.

The sound bursts out, harsh and jagged, scraping my throat raw. Can’t stop. The question is so absurd, so perfectly Freddie, that my ribs ache with the force of it.

“Am I okay?” I gasp between fits. “These assholes kidnapped me, Freddie. I’m fantastic.”

“Put her down,” Weller says from across the room, his words slicing through the air.

He’s standing by floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the city, not a single wrinkle in his white shirt despite the felony his pack just committed. His jaw is locked tight enough to crack teeth, muscles coiled beneath that perfect exterior. Playing the civilized alpha while his men do the dirty work. Nice.

Owen gestures to his and Tristan’s bloodied clothes and various injuries. “Have you looked at us, Weller? Your precious omega turned us into chew toys.”

Your precious omega. The words sink into my skin like hooks. I get all knotted up inside, warmth spreading over my skin. My stupid body doesn’t understand that they’re not mine anymore. They will never be mine.

“Now.”

The word cuts through everything else. One syllable carrying enough authority to make the air vibrate. Owen resists for only a moment more before he sets me on my feet.

I’m free.

Time to redecorate.

The crystal vase on the console table is the first to go. I sweep it off with one arm, the cool glass smooth against my palm before it flies. It explodes against the marble floor in a satisfying symphony of destruction.

I tense, waiting for hands to grab me, for someone to tell me to stop, but none of them move. None of them flinch.

Interesting.

I pick up some hideous sculpture next—all smooth curves and no soul. It’s cold and lifeless. My eyes meet Weller’s before I let it slip through my fingers.

The sound of it breaking sends a jolt of vicious pleasure through me.