Page 28 of Sweet Torment

There’s a thunk, like he set the phone down. When his voice returns, he rattles off a number. Tristan repeats it under his breath, committing it to memory.

We end the call with Winston and immediately dial the number. The phone barely rings once before someone answers.

“Ezra.”

Jealousy flares instantly. Fucking ridiculous since I’d blow my own foot off if it meant getting Bianca out safe, but still. Bianca was close with this guy. The keeper of the orgasms.

Tristan doesn’t waste time. “This is Tristan. Winston gave us your number. Bianca needs help.”

A loaded pause. “You’re one of the alphas?”

“That’s right. We just escaped, but we have trackers. We need them gone before our fathers catch up to us.”

Ezra grunts. “Location?”

Weller reads off the street name, taking a hard right that throws me against the door. “We stole a guard’s SUV. Can you meet us somewhere?”

“Abandoned warehouse off Delano?”

“We’ll be there,” I growl, leaning forward between the seats.

Weller floors it. The SUV jumps the curb at the first light, nearly clipping a trash can. Nobody says shit. We’re all wound tight, and even Freddie’s too fucked up to crack a joke. His knee bounces double-time, thumb bloody from picking at the cuticle. Tristan stares out the window, eyes unreadable.

I want to rip the door off its hinges and take off running for her—no plan, no backup, just bare hands and violence. Fuck a plan. But I know if I’m dead or locked up again, I can’t do anything for her.

I’m not letting her down again. I’m haunted by Bianca with that fucking collar around her neck, just like we had to wear. The way she looked at us through that glass, her eyes still defiant. Still our girl. The thought of her suffering what we did makes me want to bury Montgomery alive.

The streetlights flicker past, and nobody talks.

The warehouse materializes out of the darkness, and its broken windows reflect our headlights. A nondescript van sits in the lot, engine off. Weller pulls alongside it, cuts our lights, and kills the engine.

We pile out, gravel crunching beneath our feet.

The van’s door slides open, and two figures step out. Omegas, from their scent. A man and a woman. The woman’s short, muscular build and confident stance immediately tell me she’s dangerous despite her size. The man moves in a way that screams military.

“So you’re the assholes I made voodoo dolls for?” The woman—Megan, I assume—calls out with a crooked grin. “Gotta say, the real versions are much better looking.”

Ezra gives her a sharp look that shuts her up immediately. His face gives away nothing as he approaches, but I recognize the way he catalogs each of us and assesses the threat. Just like Weller would.

“Situation report,” he commands.

Weller steps forward, and the similarity between them hits me immediately. They’re practically fucking twins in how they carry themselves. Serious as fuck.

Our girl spent five years in the woods fucking a carbon copy of Weller.

I guess I’m actually kind of okay with that.

If he were like me or Tristan, I’d have to kill him.

“Dr. Montgomery has Bianca,” Weller says without preamble. “She made some kind of deal with him to get us away from Whitney for her cooperation. We were able to get eyes on her yesterday. She’s in pre-heat, collared, and under his control. A few hours ago, Whitney and three of her friends attacked Bianca in her room. They’re all dead.”

Ezra doesn’t even blink. “She killed all four of them?”

I hate it. I hate that she had to become this. But I also can’t deny the dark thrill that runs through me when I think about her offing our enemies. My omega, deadly and hot and sassy as fuck. I clench my fists at my sides.

“As far as we know.”

“Bianca’s condition?”