Page 31 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
The final verse approaches, and I lock eyes with Rex again. He hasn't moved from his position, guitar slung low across his hips, his gaze burning into mine with a hatred tinged with grudging acknowledgment that matches my own.
"I want to tear you apart?—"
The words feel like a confession. Because I do. I want to destroy him the way he's destroying me. Want to rip that mask off his face and show the world exactly what he's hiding. Want to make him feel as exposed and vulnerable as I do every day of my damn life.
"—piece by piece until there's nothing fucking left!"
My voice breaks on the last line, cracking into something that's almost a scream. The music cuts out abruptly, leaving just the echo of my breathing in the sudden silence.
Nobody moves for a long moment.
Phoenix is staring at me with his mouth slightly open, drumsticks frozen mid-air. Rafael's got one eyebrow raised, a slow smile spreading across his face.
And Rex is perfectly still, that single eye unreadable as it tracks over my face. I'm breathing hard, chest heaving against the restrictive binder, sweat trickling down my spine. The silence stretches between us, taut as a wire about to snap.
"Well," Rafael finally says, breaking the tension. "Thatwas intense."
"Holy shit, Bells," Phoenix breathes. "Where did thatcome from?"
I don't answer, can't answer, because Rex is walking toward me again. He stops just outside of arm's reach, head tilted slightly as he studies me.
"It'll do," he says finally, voice flat and unaffected, like I didn't just pour my entire soul out through that microphone.
The dismissal makes me want to drive my knife into the eyehole of his mask. After all that—after stripping myself raw and bleeding all over his stupid song—all he can say isit'll do?
"Go fuck yourself," I spit, shoving past him toward the door. I need air, need space, need to be anywhere but here.
"Where are you going, Bells?" Rex calls after me, sounding almost bored. "We have eleven more songs to get through."
I freeze at the door, hand on the handle. Eleven more songs. Eleven more times I have to stand there and let him dissect me, push me, break me down and rebuild me into whatever shape he needs for his revenge plot.
"I need five minutes," I manage through gritted teeth.
"You have two."
I slam the door behind me hard enough to rattle the psychedelic paintings on the walls.
The hallway is marginally cooler than the studio, and I lean against the wall, trying to catch my breath. My chest aches where the binder digs in, and I can feel my pulse hammering in my throat. The leather collar covering the incomplete mark on my neck feels like it's choking me.
This is what the next six months will be like. Rex pushing and pushing until I either break or explode. Using my own emotions against me. Using them for his music.
And the worst part is, it worked. That performance was better than anything I ever did with The Reverie.
More real, more powerful, more...
Moreeverything.
I hate that he knew exactly which buttons to push to get what he wanted. Hate that some part of me—some fucked-up, traitorous part—actually felt alive in there for the first time in years.
Maybe for the first time in my life.
The door opens and Phoenix's massive frame fills the doorway. "Hey," he says softly, like he's approaching a spooked animal. "You okay?"
"Peachy," I mutter, not meeting his eyes.
He steps into the hallway, closing the door behind him. "Look, I know Rex can be... intense. But that thing you just did in there? That was incredible. I haven't heard anything that raw since—" He cuts himself off, and I know he was about to say Nash's name.
"Since your previous singer?"
