Page 42 of Sweet Torment

“Can you reach Owen?” I ask.

Weller tries. “Owen, where the fuck are you?”

Just static.

“Freddie?”

Nothing.

“Out of range or ignoring us,” I say.

“Either makes sense with those two.”

We press northwest, following Weller’s invisible pull. The comm crackles again. It’s Freddie’s voice, ragged and breathless. “Can’t talk. Following Owen. He’s fuck… he’s moving fast. Think he caught a trail.”

“A trail of what?” Weller presses.

There’s a pause.

Then Freddie’s voice comes back, filled with a dawning horror that makes my blood run cold. “Oh my God. Her scent. Guys, it’s everywhere. It’s so strong. She’s in hea—Owen!” The comm clicks off, leaving a dead, terrifying silence in its wake.

Weller stops dead, his head snapping up like he’s been shot. “He’s right,” he rasps. We keep moving, faster now, crashing through the undergrowth.

And then I smell it.

A wave of heat and sweetness and pure, undiluted Bianca smacks the fuck out of me. It’s her natural scent, light and warm, but magnified a thousand times into something deliciously her. Dark amber notes and vanilla coat my tongue. It’s desperate. It’s a fire alarm. A mating call.

She’s a siren in the night, and I could never resist her.

My knees buckle.

I catch myself on a tree, my breath leaving me in a rush. Every instinct in my body screams at me.

Find Bianca.

Claim Bianca.

Protect Bianca.

It bypasses my brain entirely, a primal command that lights up every nerve ending. The part of me that values control is screaming in protest, but the rest is already gone, lost to the biological imperative.

Weller lets out a low, guttural sound, more animal than man. He stumbles forward, following the scent like he’s being pulled on a chain. All his earlier pain is gone, replaced by a raw, feral focus that’s almost as scary as Owen’s.

Holy shit.

This is what they wanted. They threw her in here to break her, to turn her into a prize for these fuckers to claim. And the scent flooding the air is proof their sick plan is working.

In the distance, a sharp crack echoes through the trees. It sounds like a gunshot.

“Was that⁠—”

“Move,” Weller commands, and we run faster.

14

BIANCA

Things are not going well for me.