Page 47 of Sweet Torment

“Owen!” Bianca screams and begins crawling towards him.

That’s when Weller and Tristan rush through the trees.

They don’t stop.

Weller goes straight to Bianca, dropping to his knees beside her. His hands hover over her for a second, visibly shaking, as if he’s afraid to touch her. Then he pulls his shirt over his head.

“Arms up,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.

She does, letting him dress her. The black fabric falls to her thighs. He pulls her against his chest, burying his face in her hair, his whole body trembling. He murmurs her name over and over.

I can finally breathe again. I move to her, wrapping my arms around her with Weller. She is cocooned between us.

Owen has Tristan help him pin the other man’s arms down. Then he pulls a knife from his boot. “You looked at her.” The words come out in a growl, and the knife is in the man’s eye before he can react.

Tristan moves to the unconscious man on the ground and presses two fingers to his neck. He must find a pulse, because without hesitation, he slides a knife across his throat.

Owen and Tristan both come to Bianca, pulling her into their arms, kissing her head, impossibly gentle.

Softer than I’ve ever seen them.

Weller lifts Bianca against his chest. She immediately burrows into him, her face pressed to his neck. “We need to get going.”

I go to Owen, getting his good arm over my shoulder. His skin has taken on a funny color. He’s lost too much blood. But the moment Bianca’s ankle comes within reach while she’s held in Weller’s arms, his hand shoots out and wraps around it.

“Not letting you go,” he grunts.

“Wasn’t asking you to.” Bianca’s voice is feather-light.

The forest seems more sinister now. Another whir cuts through the night. I raise the gun. My first shot misses. The second one hits.

“I can walk,” Bianca says after a few minutes.

“No,” all four of us say at once.

She actually laughs, and it sounds real. “Bossy alphas,” she mutters, but presses closer to Weller.

As we move, Tristan stays close, identifying every visible injury on Bianca. His fingers touch the ends of her hair.

“Those bitches cut it,” she says, her voice laced with irritation.

Weller presses a kiss to her temple. “You’re beautiful.”

She whimpers as Tristan’s fingers ghost over the wounds on her arms. He peels back a bandage, his jaw clenching. “Did someone stab you?”

“Just a little, but I don’t care about that right now,” she says, pushing into his touch. And that’s what scares me. She’s already moving past it. She doesn’t process anything; she just survives it and shoves it into a box. One day, that box is going to explode.

“Well, I care. These need cleaning,” he murmurs. Every place his hands touch makes her breath catch.

“Tristan...” she breathes, catching his wrist.

“Stop that, Bianca. This is serious.” He pulls free, checking her ribs. His voice drops, hesitant. “Did they hurt you… inside?”

“No,” she says quickly. “They didn’t get that far. I’m fine.”

Relief washes through all of us.

She grabs Tristan’s hand and pulls it between her legs. “But I really need you… here.”