Page 10 of Sweet Torment

But it’s the way she doesn’t give a single fuck about her own safety that gets to me the most. It makes me want to wrap her in bubble wrap and lock her in a tower somewhere where no one can touch her but us.

Whitney stops pacing. “This is unacceptable,” she hisses at her father, wobbling like she’s about to topple over. No doubt she’s loaded up with drugs too. “You promised me they would never be able to break free.”

Montgomery barely glances up. His face remains blank and emotionless as he checks Tristan’s vitals. “Science evolves with new data, Whitney. The formula can be recalibrated.”

“Recalibrated?” Her voice rises, shrill enough to make me wince. “One of my alphas is gone!”

The way she says my alphas makes me want to throw up. I reject the notion that we were ever hers.

“These things take time,” Montgomery says, moving to Freddie’s bedside.

“We don’t have time!” Whitney stalks toward Freddie’s bed.

Freddie’s monitors start racing the second she gets within feet of him. Even half-conscious, his body knows she’s a threat. His golden curls are dark with sweat, plastered against his forehead. His skin has gone gray, almost translucent under the harsh lights. The bruises across his face have deepened—evidence of where my fist connected during the show.

I did that.

And I’ve done worse. To all of them.

I hate her so fucking much.

“My sweet boy,” she coos, as she reaches her bandaged hand toward his head, fingers trembling slightly. “You’re going to be okay. We’ll fix this, and everything will go back to normal.”

Normal. Like we’re just going to forget Bianca.

His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths. She knows exactly what she’s doing to him.

“Leave him the fuck alone,” Tristan growls from his bed, his voice rough from disuse but still carrying an edge.

I didn’t realize he was awake.

Whitney’s head snaps toward him, her face contorting. “Know your place, Tristan. I’m still your omega.”

He laughs and her face goes an ugly red. Tristan has always had a way of getting under her skin. “Daddy, do something about him.”

Montgomery frowns at the monitors and sighs as if we’re all just minor inconveniences in his day. “Mr. Miller’s stress levels are rising,” he notes clinically, tapping at the screen. “I’d prefer you not agitate the subjects while they’re stabilizing.”

Subjects. The casual dehumanization makes my fingers curl into fists at my sides.

I hate how helpless and easily controlled we are. I want to tear out of these restraints, smash through the window, and find Bianca and Weller, but my eyelids keep drooping, heavy as sandbags. I can barely keep my head up, let alone fight.

“I want to know where she is,” Whitney demands, pacing again. “Where are you keeping her?”

“Ms. Quinn is secure,” Montgomery replies, not answering her question. That information would be useful for me to know, but I’m glad Whitney is in the dark about her location.

The thought of Bianca strapped down like us, at Montgomery’s mercy, makes my blood boil. I pull against the restraints, but it’s useless.

“And what about him?” Whitney’s voice wobbles, and there’s real fear beneath her anger. “Weller?”

Montgomery’s expression doesn’t change, but his fingers tighten on the tablet. “We’re still figuring things out, Whitney, but you will see him soon.”

What is that supposed to mean? Is Weller coming back?

“I want that bitch gone.” Whitney’s voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “I want her out of my life and out of their heads. She’s ruining everything!” The last part comes out as a shriek.

“Ms. Quinn is not your concern,” Montgomery says firmly. “I will handle this.”

“You better fix this, Daddy.”