Page 63 of Sweet Torment

“Sure,” I say, “except when she starts stabbing us in the dicks. You see what she did to Whitney’s face, right? Imagine what she can do to your junk.”

“She wouldn’t stab my dick,” Tristan says with absolute confidence. “She likes my dick. I have a very likable dick.”

“She needs us to not be idiots,” Weller cuts in, looking at the three of us like he doubts that is possible. “We’ll ask her what she needs. Once we figure out if we’ll be able to leave the house, we can make some plans. She’ll want to see her brother. Her parents.” He continues, “But tonight... we feed her. We let her rest. We follow her lead.”

“The way to her heart is definitely through dick, though,” Tristan insists, earning a glare from Weller. Tristan just grins wider.

“You’re a menace,” Weller mutters. “Don’t harass her.”

Freddie heads to the stairs. “I’m gonna go find her.”

He’s a glutton for punishment.

“Brave man,” I call after him. “Try not to bleed on the carpet.”

He chuckles.

“I call dibs on your sneaker collection,” Tristan throws in as he disappears up the stairs.

21

BIANCA

Time.

That’s all I want. Time alone where their worry doesn’t cling to me, stifling every breath. Time to wander and get a sense of the situation without being smothered by their hovering concern.

But the portrait stops me dead. Whitney, front and center, takes up the whole mantlepiece like it’s her personal throne. The alphas are arrayed around her, as if she’s the axis their world turns on. The painting is too big for the fireplace, a gaudy showpiece, and it’s impossible to look away. Air catches sharply in my throat. My skin prickles, and it feels like there are bugs crawling all over me.

She’s gone, rotting somewhere, and still, somehow, she manages to haunt me from the grave. Their faces are perfect masks, blank and bloodless, their eyes empty. Even dead, Whitney stares me down, daring me to forget my place.

I can't look away. My fingers twitch. The need to destroy it is a call I can’t resist.

Making my way to the huge, expensive-looking kitchen, I grab a knife from the block on the counter. I run my finger along the edge of the largest one. Sharp. Really sharp.

I'm honestly shocked Dr. Montgomery trusts me with access to these. But then again, he sees everything. The cameras. The guards. He probably thinks it's amusing to watch me struggle with the temptation. Maybe he wonders if I will murder the alphas.

Well, that’s a dark thought.

Grabbing the entire block, I return to the living room and stare up at her smug face.

I stand before the portrait and study her features. Perfect skin. Perfect hair. Perfect smile. All of it fake. All of it hiding the monster underneath.

I start throwing. One knife after another, each landing with a solid, echoing thunk that shakes the silence. Her mouth caves in first, then her throat, then the hands that touched them. I don't stop until every blade in the block is buried in her, steel teeth gnashing through canvas.

"Fuck you," I hiss, and if I’m being honest, I probably look a little unhinged.

I step back, breathing hard, surveying the damage. The portrait is in tatters, her face obliterated. The alphas remain untouched in the background. I was careful about that. Precise. This wasn't about them.

It's petty. Pathetic, maybe. But for a second, I feel lighter. Like I've scored a point in a game that's rigged against me.

Take notes on that, asshole. Let him see exactly what I think of his precious daughter.

I move through the house, my purpose shifting from destruction to reconnaissance. Not for valuables, but for weaknesses. Escape routes. Camera blind spots. I count the guards outside, mentally mapping their positions, calculating angles. My brain's stuck in survival mode, and I can't switch it off. Not that I’d want to. We’re still up to our necks in bullshit.

The living room has two cameras in opposite corners, their red lights blinking. Watching. The windows have standard locks—nothing I couldn't pick in under a minute—but the guards outside make that pointless. We may as well be his pet hamsters.

I keep moving because if I stop, I'll think. And thinking means remembering that not so long ago, I was content at the refuge, talking to squirrels like some deranged Disney princess. Now I'm bonded to four alphas, have added considerably to a body count that would make any therapist quit, and I'm wearing a shock collar like I’m a dangerous pet. Life comes at you fast. Then it beats the shit out of you and sends you the bill.