Page 22 of Savage Surrender

But she has gone completely silent. For too long.

It stinks of my father, and he’s kept her from me before...

I’m looking out the window when I see movement... a group of guards huddling together. I crack the window as quietly as I can.

“At the gate...” Static swallows part of the message. “Yes, the Quinn woman... this is the third time. Boss says she doesn’t come in, and doesn’t see the omega, but the offer to meet for dinner can be arranged... yeah, over... the whole family is fucking nuts. Walk her off. Boss would prefer not to call the police again.”

“Gate,” I say in a hushed tone, waving Tristan and Weller over without alerting anyone outside. “Kate is at the gate.”

We stand in dead silence for the next half hour listening for more details on Kate and watching for Bianca out the windows while the clock over the mantel takes its sweet fucking time.

She’s been gone all day.

We feel her through the bond before the golf cart turns into view, fear and anger and enough frustration to make me want to punch someone.

A guard is driving. Bianca sits beside him with her face set in a scowl and one thumbnail caught between her teeth. The cart barely stops before she jumps off and marches up the steps to the door.

The guard outside calls after her. She answers without breaking stride, too far away for me to catch the words. The door opens, and she pushes past us the moment she’s inside. She smells like strangers, cosmetics, and fresh blood and it trails behind her as she disappears down the hall.

“B—” I start.

The bathroom door slams hard enough to shake the frame. Then the shower starts.

Weller knocks softly on the bathroom door. “Did anyone hurt you physically?”

Her answer almost disappears under the water. “No.”

She starts crying right after that, the sound muffled by running water and a locked door while the bond gives all of it back to us.

All day, I studied guards and told myself it counted as helping her. Great fucking job, Freddie.

Owen’s hand closes around the doorknob, and I hold my breath, waiting for Weller to intervene, for Bianca to scream at him, for whatever comes next.

His knuckles go white. The bathroom door stays shut.

One finger at a time, he lets go.

7

BIANCA

Six hours in, my ass is numb.

Strange fingers in my hair. Strange fingers turning my face toward better light. Hands at my waist, my ankles, my nails, talking over me while they pluck and paint and polish like the body in the chair came without a person inside.

Outside the window, two birds chase each other through the roses. One flies off. The other follows because apparently leaving really is that easy for everyone but me.

Wanting to trade places with birds is becoming my new thing.

A plane passes overhead and I watch until it disappears. Everyone on it is going somewhere. Maybe not somewhere good, but somewhere that’s not here.

I hate them a little.

My hair is long again. Whatever they used to undo Rebecca’s hack job worked fast enough to qualify as dark magic, and now it falls almost to my waist, heavy and familiar against my back. I won’t pretend I hate that part. I’ve missed my hair with a quiet, stupid ache I would rather eat glass than admit aloud - especially here, where anything I like is liable to end up in a file labeled useful leverage.

I can braid it again.

Five women orbit me. One for nails. One for hair. One who has removed every scrap of body hair I possessed with the focused malice of a tax auditor. One for the spray tan. One painting my face into something soft and expensive.