Page 56 of Stolen Harmony
For a second his voice went raw, the honesty hitting harder than anything else he’d said all night. And then, just as quickly, he flashed me a grin, armor snapping back in place. “What about you, Mr. Stability? Still alphabetizing your tea collection?”
I rolled my eyes, but my mouth tugged toward a smile. “Better than drinking mine straight from the bottle.”
“Debatable,” he said, leaning a fraction closer, like he enjoyed watching me squirm.
Rowan smirked, tilting his head until our shoulders nearly brushed. “You really hate when I get too close, don’t you?” His voice was pitched low, playful, but threaded with something sharper underneath.
I steadied my glass on the table. “I don’t hate it.”
His grin widened. “Interesting. Because your heartbeat’s saying otherwise.” His fingers tapped lightly against the wood, right next to mine, like he was drumming out the rhythm only he could hear.
“Rowan,” I warned, but my voice betrayed me, softer than I wanted.
“What?” He leaned back just enough to look smug, eyes dancing. “I’m just pointing out the obvious. You get twitchy every time I breathe in your direction. It’s kind of adorable.”
“Adorable,” I repeated flatly.
“Yeah. Like a librarian who’s secretly judging me for dog-earing pages but won’t admit he likes the attention.”
Despite myself, I laughed, the sound breaking through the tension like a crack of light. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet…” His hand brushed mine—light, fleeting, but deliberate. “You haven’t moved away.”
The touch sent a jolt up my arm, and I hated how much I wanted him to do it again.
Rowan leaned in closer, grin tilting dangerous now. “Relax, Elias. I’m only teasing.” His breath ghosted warm against my ear. “Unless you don’t want me to stop.”
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “You’re drunk.”
“Sure,” he said, pulling back just enough to smirk at me. “Let’s blame the beer.”
Before I could ask what he meant, Rowan was sliding out of the booth, standing with the loose-limbed confidence of someone who’d had just enough alcohol to take risks but not enough to stumble.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
He jerked his chin toward the corner stage where a battered acoustic guitar leaned against an amp. “Research.”
I watched him weave through the crowd, the easy sway of his body pulling more eyes than just mine. Conversations faltered as he passed.
He picked up the guitar like it belonged to him, tested the strings with a few clipped strums, then stepped up to the mic without asking permission. The bar noise ebbed. Anna caught my eye from behind the bar and gave me a resigned little shrug — she’d clearly seen this act before.
“This isn’t planned,” Rowan said, voice carrying clean and sharp over the speakers. He strummed once, hard, the chord jagged and raw. “But then again, the best things usually aren’t.”
The first notes weren’t gentle — they were a growl, a pulse. This wasn’t pretty background music. This was a challenge, an announcement. His voice came in rough, rising over the chords like it was too big to contain, like he wanted to shake the walls with it.
It wasn’t a sad song, though grief bled through every lyric. It was anger made melody, defiance wrapped in rhythm. He leaned into the mic, shouting notes like they were accusations, and every eye in the bar locked on him. Mine most of all.
And then he did it. Without breaking rhythm, he shrugged out of his leather jacket and let it fall to the floor. The crowd whooped, but he wasn’t done. He dragged his t-shirt over his head in one smooth pull and tossed it aside, bare chest gleaming under the stage lights.
The room erupted — catcalls, cheers, laughter — but Rowan didn’t even blink. He kept his gaze on me. Every chord, every lyric, every wild, reckless note was aimed straight across the bar like an arrow. My throat went dry under the weight of it.
The heat in his voice matched the heat rolling off his body as he threw himself into the chorus, head tilting back, sweat already slicking his skin under the lights. His muscles shifted with each strum, lean lines cut sharp by the shadows, his tattoos flexing as his arms moved. He didn’t just play the song. Heownedit. Owned the room. Owned me.
The audience clapped and shouted in time, swept up in his energy, but I barely heard them. All I could hear was him. All I could feel was his gaze, pinning me where I sat like I was the only one here.
By the last verse, he was grinning that dangerous grin, the kind that dared me to look away. I couldn’t. Every word hit like it was meant for me alone, a confession wrapped in distortion and defiance.
He ended with a sharp, ringing chord that left the bar breathless. Silence held for half a heartbeat, then applause crashed like a wave, people stomping, shouting, cheering.
