Page 100 of Sweet Torment

We find a secluded corner on the third floor, nestled between tall bookshelves. There’s a comfortable loveseat, deep enough to sink into and private enough for our purposes. We balance the laptop between us.

“This is the USB drive from Whitney’s office,” I say, my voice tight. “I’m... not sure what’s on it. I’m worried it might be…” I can’t even say the words.

Tristan’s expression hardens. “Give it to me.” He takes the small drive from my hand and plugs it into the laptop. “Close your eyes if you want. I’ll check first.”

I do. I squeeze my eyes shut, my heart pounding against my ribs. I can’t watch. I can’t see them with her. I hear the click of the trackpad, the soft sound of a file opening. I brace myself for the wave of revulsion and pain I know I’ll feel through the bond.

“It’s not that,” Tristan says, his voice quiet but firm. “You can look.”

I open my eyes slowly. He’s right. The screen isn’t filled with videos of them. It’s a simple file folder. The first subfolder is just a series of links to news articles. The headlines are vague: “Men Missing Near Hunter’s Creek,” “Local Businessman Found Dead in Apparent Accident,” “Man Found in River.”

Tristan frowns, his curiosity piqued. “What is this?”

“I don’t know,” I lie, my voice flat. But I do. My heart starts to pound. I know exactly what these are.

He clicks the first one. An article about the three alphas who attacked me in Hunter’s Creek that “went missing.” The next is about Rodney Lachlan, the alpha who was abusing Stacy, found dead in the river. Kenneth. Michael…. And that’s not all. One by one, I see the faces of the men I killed. Whitney had been collecting them.

My throat feels like it’s closing. She knew. All this time, she knew. That means Dr. Montgomery knew.

“Bianca,” Tristan says, his voice low and intrigued. He’s putting it together, but his reaction isn’t horror. It’s a dark kind of interest. “Did you⁠—”

I close the folder before he can see any more, my hand trembling. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that they’ve been watching me the whole time.” I can’t look at him. I don’t want to see the questions in his eyes, the way his mind is probably already connecting dots I don’t want connected. He doesn’t say anything, but I feel his fascination wash over me through the bond.

I click on the next folder, desperate to change the subject. It’s filled with video files. I recognize the grainy footage immediately. It’s me. At the refuge. Training, sparring, running drills, hunting. There are hours of it, all timestamped and meticulously organized.

“Jesus Christ,” Tristan breathes, leaning closer to the screen. There’s a disturbed edge to his voice now, the casual interest gone. “All these years.”

I decide to change direction and close out of the USB drive for now. I’m not sure what to do with all of that. So Whitney was stalking me, but she probably found these files in her dad’s things and saved them. Why? What was she planning?

Tristan must sense I need a distraction, and he doesn’t push about what we’ve discovered.

For a while, the only other sounds are our breathing and the occasional tap of keys. But then I feel Tristan’s eyes on me, not the screen, and my skin prickles with awareness. He leans forward, his lips brushing the curve of my bare shoulder where my cardigan has slipped down. “You must be saving the best for last,” he murmurs against my skin.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, distracted by the heat of his mouth.

“You still haven’t taken my knot.”

My eyes grow huge. “Are you serious?”

“Very.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I hiss, my eyes widening as heat floods my cheeks. The thought that I’ve been neglecting one of my alphas sends a wave of guilt through me, quickly followed by something else… anticipation.

“I am.” His smile is all predator, his eyes darkening. The way he’s looking at me makes me clench involuntarily.

“I mean earlier!” I snap, suddenly hyper-aware of the way his thigh presses against mine. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m juggling dicks now, and it’s hard to keep track of whose turn it is...”

My voice trails off as Tristan leans closer, his breath fanning against my ear. The library suddenly feels too warm, too small.

“I’ve noticed,” he says softly, his voice deep. His hand slides from the keyboard to rest on my knee. “I’ve been counting every moan and every whimper you’ve given them.”

My breath catches as his fingers inch higher, just barely skimming beneath the hem of my dress. “I’m not mad... just letting you know.” His eyes meet mine. “So I guess... whenever you can pencil me in.”

The casual way he says it belies the intensity in the way he’s looking at me. My body responds instantly. My nipples go tight, and there’s a telltale slickness gathering between my legs. I shift in my seat. A wicked and thrilling idea begins to form. A therapist would probably tell me I’m trying to run from my problems. I glance around; we’re still alone in our little nook, hidden from view.

“I’m a little cold,” I say, my voice deliberately innocent. “Can I borrow your jacket?”

Tristan raises an eyebrow but shrugs out of his dark blazer, handing it over. I drape it over my bare legs, the material still warm from his body. Then I move, shifting onto his lap.