Page 106 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
He's sweet about it. Gentle despite his size, despite the alpha instincts that must be screaming at him to flip me over and rut. He lets me set the pace, lets me use him, only tightening his grip when I start to lose the rhythm because Rafael has come up behind me and is stroking my clit in steady, focused circles.
"You're beautiful," Phoenix whispers, licking and nipping gently at my throat, and it's not a line. It's stated as a fact, delivered with the same certainty he uses when counting time. "So fucking beautiful like this."
His already swollen knot starts to catch, and I chase it. Need it. Need to be full and claimed and locked to this alpha until the heat finally breaks.
When he finally knots me, when that impossible thickness locks us together and Phoenix spills inside me with my name on his lips and Rafael's fingers on my clit, I shatter. The orgasm tears through me like lightning, like every nerve ending firing all at once.
I collapse against Phoenix's broad chest, my limbs hanging limply at my sides, and we stay like that, locked together, Rafael's hands massaging my trembling back and thighs.
When I start to doze off, Phoenix is still murmuring soft things I can't quite process, his hands stroking my back, my hair, my face. Rafael has curled up behind me, nuzzling into my neck. Two alphas sealing me in a cocoon of alpha warmth and safety.
But even as consciousness fades, one thought keeps circling back.
Phoenix and Rafael knoweverythingnow. Know I'm a girl, know I'm an omega, know I'm their scent match.
And Rex?
Rex is also my scent match. Rex, who hates my guts. Rex, who's using me like a nuclear weapon for revenge. Rex, who will eventually figure out what I am and what we actually are to each other.
But that's a problem for tomorrow-Bells.
Tonight-Bells is just going to fucking sleep.
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
REX
The last of the bandages come off today.
Dr. Elm peels away the final layer of gauze with hands that are steady despite the slight pallor creeping into his face. Professional to the core, that one. But I catch it anyway—the millisecond where his eyes widen before his training kicks in and smooths his expression into something approximating neutral.
They all do it. Every single one.
Doesn't matter that they've seen my chart, read the surgical notes, knew exactly what was waiting under those pristine white wrappings. The reality of seeing it—reallyseeingit—always hits different than clinical descriptions.
"Healing well," Dr. Elm says, voice carefully modulated. He's probably congratulating himself on not flinching. "The infection's cleared completely. No signs of necrosis in the debrided tissue."
Debrided. Such a clean word for what they did. Scraped away dead flesh like you'd scrape mold off bread.
I don't look at the mirror on the wall. Know better than that. Know what I'll see—the same thing that made Nash'sface go carefully blank whenever he looked directly at me. The same thing that makes medical professionals with decades of experience lose a shade or two of color.
I look like the fucking zombies on the posters all over Raf’s room.
Dr. Elm circles around, examining from multiple angles. He won’t actually touch me, not even with gloves. No one does. His penlight traces over the topography of destruction like he's mapping terrain on an alien planet. Which, fair. My face probably does look extraterrestrial at this point.
"You can resume normal activities," he continues, scribbling notes on his tablet. "The surgical site is fully closed. Keep it clean, moisturize twice daily with the prescription ointment. If you experience any fever, renewed swelling, or drainage?—"
"I'll ignore it like I always do?" I offer, tone flat enough to sand wood.
He has the grace to crack a smile at that. Barely. "Ideally, you'd come back immediately. But I've read your history. You won't."
Smart man.
"Anything else?" I ask, already reaching for my mask.
"Your vocal cords showed some strain during the exam." Dr. Elm sets his tablet aside, and I know what's coming. The lecture I've heard a thousand times. "You're pushing too hard. The scar tissue in your throat?—"
