Page 3 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
He pauses at the door, looking back with those calculating eyes. "You'd tell me if something was going on, wouldn't you? If something, or someone, was... bothering you?"
"Of course," I manage, forcing a smirk. "But who's gonna bother me? I eat alphas for breakfast."
He laughs, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "That you do. Get some rest. You look tired."
The door closes behind him, and I finally let myself collapse onto the couch. My hands are shaking. Fuck.Fuck fuck fuck.
He suspects something. The way he looked at me, the careful questions… he knows something's off. Maybe not the whole truth—maybe not that I'm a fucking secret girl omega masquerading as a male beta because the stalker fan that marked me is still out there somewhere—but enough to start digging.
And Stephen Hughes is very,verygood at digging.
My reflection stares back at me from the mirror across the room. Smeared eyeliner, hair like a bird's nest, collar stark against my pale skin. A collar that covers the incomplete mark I never consented to. The incomplete mark that fucks my body over every time I have a hormonal fluctuation.
But that's Isabel's scar, Isabel's trauma, Isabel's fear.
And Isabel Frost is dead.
Long live fucking Bells.
Chapter
Two
REX
Iadjust the black and silver mask covering the right side of my face for the hundredth fucking time, ignoring the sting of the velvet lining against my raw flesh. Through the thin mesh covering my right eye, the world looks like it's drowning in shadows.
Good. Matches tonight's mood.
"Sound check in five," some greasy stagehand who's all arms and legs calls out. Kid was probably still in school when Vespyr was still selling out arenas. Before Nash died and it all went to shit.
And Nash would've hated this place.
The thought slips in before I can stop it, and suddenly it's like he's here, leaning against the amp, humming melodies only he could hear. My twin, my other half, the better half. Identical in nearly every way from our height and blue eyes to the light hair I dye inky black. Identical all except for his pleasant temperament and my face.
Verydifferent fucking face.
"Rex? You good?" Phoenix's voice cuts through my spiral. The giant blond drummer hovers nearby. His mane of blondhair falls into his eyes, and he pushes it back with those massive hands that could crush skulls if he didn't have the temperament of an overgrown golden retriever trapped in a Viking's body.
"Peachy," I say in a flat tone, turning away from his worried blue eyes.
Rafael lounges against his bass case, looking like a bored vampire with his near-black wavy hair and all-leather getup, his mask—the upper half skull-like and jet black, the lower half a crimson veil—dangling from one finger.
"Matt sounds good tonight," Rafael says, dark eyes tracking me like I'm a bomb about to detonate.
"Where the fuck is he anyway?"
"Bathroom," Phoenix supplies helpfully. "Nerves."
"Great. Our new singer shits himself before every show. That'll really help our reputation."
"Least he still shows up," Rafael mutters, and I whirl on him.
"You got something to say?"
He meets my glare without flinching. "Just that maybe if you didn't terrorize every singer we get, we wouldn't be on our fifth one in two years."
"Maybe if they weren't all useless?—"
