Page 11 of Sweet Torment

He doesn’t answer her, and Whitney moves to the window, staring out at nothing.

I think of Bianca, her skin pressed to mine, and that warmth drags me under. The world blurs, and I let sleep swallow me whole.

The door swings open so hard it bounces off the wall, and my eyes snap open. Two guards walk Weller in, and the sight of him disturbs me. He’s lost quite a bit of weight. His tall frame is hunched, his face pale and still bruised along his jaw where Whitney kicked him, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. A collar I’m all too familiar with circles his throat, and his hands are bound in front of him with thick ties. But it’s the mark on his neck that stops my breathing.

Bianca’s bite is vivid against his skin, completely covering Whitney’s old claim.

His eyes are dull, and his legs are struggling to support his weight. Still, there’s something about him that makes the guards handle him like he’s a bomb about to detonate. He has a bright red mark on his cheek that makes me wonder if they roughed him up.

Behind Weller, our fathers file in like a procession of vultures. My father towers over the others, his thick shoulders straining his jacket. His gaze lands on me, and I close my eyes again, but not before I catch the disgusted curl of his lip.

Freddie’s father, Charles, with the smarmy little smile that never reaches his eyes, glances at his son’s bed with about as much concern as he’d show a broken appliance.

Tristan’s father, Alexander, walks in next, looking like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. His eyes dart around the room, probably running cost-benefit analyses in his head while his son lies drugged across from me.

And finally, Weller’s father, William, every bit as precise and controlled as his son but with none of the humanity, glares at his son like he could shoot daggers from his eyes.

Ah. Did he hit Weller? Not his usual form of punishment—he typically prefers psychological mind fucks—but I wouldn’t put it past him.

Not with everything that’s happened.

I want to ask Weller about Bianca… has he seen her? But it wouldn’t be advisable with this audience.

Whitney steps toward Weller, her bandaged hand outstretched toward his face. “Weller, darling⁠—”

The sound that tears from Weller’s throat isn’t human. A low and guttural warning that means stay the fuck back. Everyone in the room goes still. The guards’ hands twitch toward their batons. Whitney jerks her arm back like she’s been burned, fear flashing across her face before hardening into something brittle and vicious.

“I suggest you keep your distance,” Montgomery says mildly. “The new bond has triggered extreme protective instincts. He views you as a threat to his mate.”

Neither Whitney nor Weller’s father can hide their displeasure at his words.

“She’s not his mate,” his father snaps. “This...” He inspects the mark on Weller’s neck with open disgust. “This abomination is only temporary.”

I catch Whitney smirking.

Weller’s eyes narrow, suddenly sharper and more focused. His gaze finds mine, locking on with an intensity that makes my heart rate spike. He gives me the slightest nod—so subtle I almost miss it—before shifting his attention to Freddie’s bed, then Tristan’s.

His father catches the exchange and turns to him, lip curling. “Was it worth it, son?” he snarls, each word dripping with contempt. “Was it worth burning your whole pack to the ground and throwing away your legacy for some unstable omega with bad breeding?” His voice drops lower. “No pussy in the world is worth what you gave up. You’re weak.”

Weller lunges suddenly, slamming into his father before a guard activates his collar. He drops to the floor, body convulsing as the current continues to rip through him.

Whitney gasps. “That’s what you get,” she whispers, her voice trembling with something like glee.

She’s enjoying watching him get punished for this.

“Stop!” I shout, jerking as much as I can against the restraints. It’s not enough. It’s never fucking enough.

My father’s hand clamps down on my shoulder, squeezing hard enough to grind my bones together. “You say another word, Owen, and I’ll make sure you’re next.”

I glare up at him, every ounce of hate I’ve ever felt concentrated into that look. But I keep my mouth shut. Not because I’m afraid of what he’ll do, but because I know they’re just waiting for an excuse. And I can’t get to my girl if they fuck me up too badly.

“Enough,” Montgomery says, moving to check on Weller, and the guards help him to his feet. “Guards, move the subjects to their holding cells. Mr. Dashwood, if you want a word with your son, I suggest you do it under less hostile circumstances.”

His father gives him one last withering look, then turns and stalks from the room.

Weller sags, the fight gone out of him, and the guards haul him away.

The guards begin unlocking us from our beds one by one, moving us into wheelchairs and moving us through the door. As we’re wheeled past, I see Whitney swipe a scalpel from a rolling tray and start stabbing it into the floor, over and over.