Page 27 of Sweet Torment

9

OWEN

I punch the guard so hard blood seeps through the bandage on my hand. Fuck, that feels good. He’ll live, but he won’t be getting up anytime soon. These assholes have been working for our fathers for years and get off on their power trips.

“Give me his keys,” Weller snaps, already moving for the door.

I dig through the guard’s pockets, fingers sticky with my own blood, and toss the jangling ring of keys. Weller snatches them mid-air with barely a glance.

“Let’s move,” he snarls, scanning the empty hallway. “Tristan, get his phone. Gun.”

Tristan’s hands are covered in blood—mine, the guard’s. Impossible to tell at this point. He wipes them on the guard’s uniform, then digs in his pockets. He finds the phone and something else shiny and metallic.

“Garage access,” he says, holding up the keycard between two fingers.

Weller jerks his chin toward the end of the hall. “Stairs. No elevator.”

We take the stairs three at a time, our footfalls echoing in the concrete chamber. My heart hammers against my ribs, not from exertion but pure adrenaline. Every muscle in my body feels primed. I’m shaking, but it’s not fear—it’s fucking anticipation. Every step down is one step closer to her.

We hit the exit door and burst into the underground garage. Weller immediately presses the key fob, sweeping it in an arc until an SUV chirps and flashes its lights about thirty yards away.

I throw myself into the back seat with enough force to rock the whole vehicle, slamming the door behind me. Freddie slides into the passenger seat, his hair wild, chest heaving. He doesn’t bother with the seatbelt—just stares straight ahead, fingers digging into his thighs, like he can will the distance between us and Bianca to disappear.

Weller takes the wheel, his movements calm despite the tension radiating off him. The engine growls to life, headlights cutting through the darkness of the garage.

Tristan’s already got the guard’s phone in hand. “Calling Winston now,” he says, tapping the screen and hitting speaker as Weller throws the SUV into reverse and peels out so fast we screech around the first pillar.

Fucking love the energy.

There’s a click when the call connects, and Winston’s deep, sleep-filled voice comes over the speaker. “Yeah? Who’s this?”

“Winston, we need to ta—” Tristan says, holding the phone up.

“Tristan? Where the FUCK is my sister?” Winston explodes, and I hear Clara ask him something in the background, but he doesn’t answer her.

The tension in the vehicle spikes. None of us get a chance to speak before he continues, words tumbling out in a furious rush.

“I know she’s not in a goddamn mental hospital having a breakdown like my parents were told unless you did something to her.”

Weller grabs the phone. “Winston, she’s not in a mental hospital, but she is in trouble.”

A beat of silence, then: “What kind of trouble, Weller?”

Weller’s jaw works as he glances at each of us, clearly struggling with where to begin. “The short version? Bianca broke into Whitney’s mansion, bonded with me, and it worked, got captured by Montgomery, made a deal with him for our freedom, and just killed four people who broke into her room.”

The silence stretches so long I wonder if the call dropped. Then I hear rustling. When his voice returns, it’s dangerously quiet. “Run that by me again. Slowly.”

While Tristan explains everything, I stare out the window, watching the city blur past. Dawn’s still hours away, streets nearly empty. Our fathers might not know we’ve escaped yet, but we won’t get far with the trackers embedded in our necks. We need them out. Now.

“Whoa. She killed Whitney?” Winston finally asks, his voice shifting from disbelief to something darker.

I lean forward. “And three of her friends.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Winston mutters. “What the hell has my sister been doing in the woods? Becoming a ninja?”

“Apparently,” Tristan sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“You better get my sister away from him. I would do it myself if I could fucking walk.” Something crashes in the background followed by cursing. “Her friends are here. From the refuge. Ezra and Megan. They came looking for her when she stopped responding to their calls. Hang on.”