Page 71 of Sweet Torment

If it is my father, I’m not sure I can be held responsible for what happens next.

23

BIANCA

I’m gonna kill him.

The bathroom door flies open as I drag Owen behind me, the handcuff biting into my wrist. We stumble down the hall to the entrance to find five men standing in the doorway. Dr. Montgomery stands in the front, flanked by the alphas’ fathers, all wearing identical expressions of undisguised disgust as their eyes land on me.

Owen’s dad looks at where we are handcuffed together, and he seems to get even more pissed off.

I wonder if Tristan’s father has told them I slapped him. Even so, I really don’t understand why they hate me so much, but the feeling is mutual. These are the men who raised my alphas to be the broken, beautiful disasters they are.

I resist the urge to touch the collar around my neck, but the weight of it suddenly feels like it’s choking me. I’m property. Not a person. A fucking show pony they’re all inspecting for flaws, and I get the sense their list of defects is long.

“Ah, there you are,” Montgomery says when he spots me, his tone infuriatingly normal, as if we’re all friends meeting for brunch. “I trust you slept well?”

I don’t get this guy. Shouldn’t he be grieving? Planning a memorial? Picking out a tasteful urn for his dead daughter? But he seems completely unfazed, his composure a perfect mask.

Owen’s grip on my hand tightens, the handcuff rattling between us. I can feel the anger vibrating through all of them. Weller’s back is ramrod straight, wearing the most serious of serious Weller faces. I’m starting to wonder if he ever smiles. I think it’s one of my new goals: to make it happen, to see what his face looks like when it’s not carved from stone. Even when he’s inside me, it’s Mr. Serious, like he doesn’t deserve to enjoy it.

Freddie has his arms crossed, his usual easy charm nowhere to be found. He’s staring at them like he’s ready to go, fingers tapping against his bicep in a rhythm that matches the pounding of my heart.

Tristan looks eager to tear their throats out one after the other, his blue eyes calculating which one to take down first. His fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s already practicing the motions.

I don’t dare look at Owen. I don’t need to see him to know what’s happening. He’s emanating murder.

“Oh yeah. Great sleep. I’m fucking refreshed,” I answer, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Nothing like being imprisoned in your dead ex-best friend’s house, who was instrumental in ruining your life, to really help you get some beauty sleep.”

“You do share your mother’s sense of humor.”

My mother. The mention of her sends an electric jolt through me. I really need to talk to my fucking mother. There’s history here I’m missing, connections I don’t understand. Why does Montgomery keep bringing her up?

Montgomery steps closer, his gaze sweeping over me. I fight the urge to step back, to show any sign that he’s getting to me. My heart hammers against my ribs, but I keep my chin up, my eyes locked on his.

“Ms. Quinn, we will do a quick evaluation this morning. Nothing invasive. My team will check your injuries and vitals.”

“I’m fine.”

“Indulge me. It’s part of our agreement.” Montgomery ushers in a small team of two to check us over, herding everyone into the large living room.

The agreement. The contract I signed to get them out of Whitney’s bullshit, but not out of their fathers’ apparently. The irony isn’t lost on me—I saved them from one prison only to trap them with me.

“Let’s take a look at that shoulder,” Montgomery says, turning to Owen. “Bullet wounds can be tricky.”

A nurse carefully removes the bandage to reveal the angry red hole in Owen’s shoulder. It’s small, but the wound looks painful, the skin around it swollen. Owen is a special kind of stubborn. He should be taking it easy and resting, not handcuffing me to him. Dr. Montgomery prods at the wound with gloved fingers. Owen doesn’t flinch, but I know it hurts. “No sign of infection. You’re lucky.”

“So I keep hearing.” The nurse cleans the wound and covers it with fresh bandages before fitting his arm into a sling to keep it immobilized, which he is not happy about. “I don’t need a damn sling.”

“Mr. West,” the nurse says, her voice firm but patient, “immobilization for the next week is crucial to prevent further tearing of the tissue. Vigorous activities are strongly discouraged.” When the nurse says vigorous activities, Owen looks at me like he’s not planning to avoid them at all.

I sigh. “Wear the sling, Owen. For me.” He grunts and reluctantly lets the nurse put it on and adjust it. I squeeze his hand.

Now that I’m not in heat anymore, it does seem spectacularly stupid that we had sex after he had been shot. We should probably take it easy for a while.

Meanwhile, all four of the alphas’ fathers are drilling holes into me. I’m not giving them my attention.

I can tell Owen’s father is mean as fuck. His eyes are similar to Owen’s, but where Owen’s make me feel cherished, his father’s look at me as though he’d like to destroy me.