Page 105 of Savage Surrender

Winston pulls out his phone while Matt gets into the passenger side. “Then get the fuck out of here and go find her!”

But Owen is already dragging me toward the car.

The burner vibrates before the pull-off disappears behind us. Weller. Owen answers before the first buzz finishes and puts him on speaker.

“Where the fuck is Bianca? I’ve called you like fifty times.”

There’s a pause.

“We’re in the woods, no service,” Weller says. “She went for a walk and we can’t find her. What’s wrong?”

Charles’s phone slips out of my hand and hits the floorboard.

“Find her. Now. They have a picture of Tristan at the pharmacy.”

“We’re already⁠—”

“Don’t stop moving until you find her.”

The call drops.

Owen redials. The call cuts off before the first ring finishes. A minute later, he tries again and leaves the burner on speaker between us. I pick up Charles’s phone and refresh the fathers’ thread until the same messages jump and settle again. Nothing new. No plan. No name. No way to reach her from here.

The call connects, but it’s just wind, footfalls, and Tristan yelling Bianca’s name. We listen for her to answer.

She doesn’t.

22

BIANCA

The French door shuts behind me, cutting off the smell of breakfast. My stomach rumbles in protest. I should be letting Weller feed me sausage and eggs instead of walking away hungry and pissed off.

I make it halfway down the boardwalk before I look back. Weller’s on the deck, gripping the railing. Tristan is standing next to him, and neither of them comes after me.

Good. It pisses me off that they saw me check.

I turn toward the beach and keep walking. The morning wind shoves my shirt against my body and whips my hair across my mouth. Farther down the shore, waves break in hard white lines instead of the lazy curl they had yesterday, and the tide has already covered most of the smooth sand.

My thighs ache, and so does everything between them.

Assholes.

Beautiful, lying assholes.

I start jogging.

Sweat gathers at the back of my neck even though the air isn’t that hot, and my lower stomach keeps tightening with a dull, restless pull that has nothing to do with sore muscles.

My body wants to turn around and crawl into the nest. Apparently betrayal doesn’t matter when there are four alphas willing to pet us through it.

No.

I breathe in for four steps and out for four. Again. By the time I reach the next public access, I can fill my lungs without wanting to scream.

A red flag snaps above the dunes. Beneath it, a weathered sign warns of dangerous currents in letters large enough to read from the beach. Two men are taking down a stack of rental chairs while a family argues with a little boy who wants to swim. He keeps pointing toward the water. His mother keeps shaking her head.

The boy frowns at the ocean in disappointment.