Page 13 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
I look and smell like I've been through a war.
That's when I hear it.
A slight scraping noise, so quiet I almost miss it over my own ragged breathing.
And it's coming from behind the standing mirror.
My blood turns to ice water. I grab my binder and shirt, yanking them over my head. I grab the mirror and shove it aside, nearly toppling it, revealing a maintenance door the same industrial beige as the walls. And the door is cracked open.
Someone's been watching me this entire time from the tunnel through the gap between the mirror and the wall. I can feel it in my fucking bones.
Someonesawme.
Terror-fueled adrenaline surges through my body, momentarily driving out my exhaustion and the pain in my ribs. I shove my hand into my pocket and grab the treasured knife I keep against my thigh. The blade flicks open with a satisfyingsnickand I'm through the door. The tunnel beyond is narrow, litby emergency lighting that casts everything in a sick green glow. It smells like mold and rust and… cologne.
A male alpha.
Oh, someone's getting stabbed tonight.
Footsteps echo ahead of me, unhurried. Like whoever it is doesn't know I'm following. Or doesn't care.
I move forward on silent feet, a skill I learned young when I had to sneak past drunk handlers after late-night shows. The tunnel curves ahead and I round the corner with my blade raised, ready to fucking gut whoever's been violating my privacy?—
It's Rex Steele.
"Were youwatchingme?" I snarl, and before he can answer, before I can think, I'm lunging, the blade arcing through the air.
His hand deflects my wrist, the blade scraping harmlessly against the leather of his jacket, and suddenly I'm spun around and pressed against the cold concrete wall with his hand gripping my collar. Not squeezing, not yet, just pinning me.
And I press the tip of my knife against his chest, right over his heart.
This close, I can smell him. Leather and smoke, but not cigarette smoke. Smoke like the burning remains of a forest after a raging fire. A dark, dangerous scent that makes my skin prickle with heat despite the suppressants.
Fuck.
Even through the chemical haze of too many suppressants, my body notices him. His scent. The way his height makes me have to tilt my head back. The controlled strength in the hand holding my collar. The heat radiating off him where his body cages mine against the wall. The dyed black hair falling into his one visible ice blue eye.
He's fuckingbeautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes you understand why fans lose their minds over him despite never seeing his full face.
My suppressants really must be failing after all.
His thumb shifts, pressing against my incomplete mating mark through the leather of my collar. I grit my teeth and press the blade harder against his chest, channeling my frustration into anger.
Of all the alphas in the world, why does this masked asshole have to smell so good? And why is his gaze flicking over my face like he's wondering the same thing?
"Getting your sick kicks watching me change?" I grit out. "Did you take fucking pictures too?"
His visible eye narrows. "I'm not a fuckingcreep, Bells."
"Right," I spit. "Because stalking me and watching me from behind my dressing room mirror isn't creepy at all. Even if you didn't know I'm a girl."
"So you're not a trans guy, then?" he demands.
"What?" I blink, thrown by the sudden question. "No, I?—"
"Good. Then you're fair game." His visible eye bores into mine, but there's something else there now—a flicker of heat he's trying to suppress. "Here's what's going to happen, Bells. You're going to get your own music. Tell Stephen whatever lie you want—creative differences, vocal problems, sudden case of integrity—I don't care. But you're done robbing graves to build your brand."
"I have no fucking clue what you're talking about!" The words explode out of me. "Why are you being so fucking vague?"
