Page 41 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
"Was never part of the deal." I'm shaking now, but it's anger, not fear. At least, that's what I'm telling myself. "And you knowwhat? Maybe you never owned me in the first place. Maybe I was just too fucking traumatized to realize it until now."
The words surprise me even as they leave my mouth. Because they're true. For years, I've been operating under the assumption that Stephen controls my life, my career, my identity. But standing here in this shitty alley, rain starting to mist down from the gray sky, I realize something fundamental has shifted.
I'm not afraid of him anymore.
Then his expression changes. Something cold and menacing slides across his features, replacing the false concern and manufactured disappointment.
He leans in close, so close I can smell his expensive minty cologne. His breath ghosts across my neck, right over the spot where the leather collar hides my incomplete mark.
"That's where you're wrong."
The world narrows to a pinpoint.
I'm fifteen again, trapped in a dressing room, roses scattered across the vanity, a man in a mask saying,You're mine, you'll always be mine,as teeth sink into my throat?—
Stephen's hand slides up my side, fingers ghosting dangerously close to where the binder flattens my chest, and Ifreeze.
Can't move. Can't breathe. Can't do anything but stand there like a deer in headlights while my brain screams at me to fight, to run, to dosomething?—
Rex's fist materializes out of nowhere.
CRUNCH.
Stephen's head snaps back, his body following the momentum as Rex's vicious punch sends him flying into the side of the building. He hits hard enough to leave a dent in the metal siding, crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut.
Rex is on Stephen before he can fall, snarling like something feral, something barely human. The alpha's fists rain down in a blur of violence on the beta's face, pulverizing his features like he's punching into a pumpkin and not a man, each impact accompanied by wet crunching sounds that make my stomach lurch. Stephen's not fighting back anymore, might not even be conscious, or even alive, but Rex keeps hitting him.
And hitting him.
And hitting him.
I stare at the knife in my hand.
When did I draw my knife? Was I going to stab Stephen? The blade gleams under the gray sky, and I can't remember pulling it from my pocket, can't remember flicking it open. My hand is steady—steadier than it should be—and that scares me more than anything else.
I'm still frozen. Still locked in place while my omega instincts scream conflicting messages.
Run, hide, submit, fight, freeze?—
"REX!"
Phoenix's voice cuts through the white noise in my head. He's sprinting across the parking lot, Rafael right behind him.
They grab Rex, Phoenix's strong arms wrapping around his chest while Rafael gets his legs. Rex thrashes, trying to break free, that animalistic snarl still tearing from his throat.
"Let me go!" Rex's voice is barely recognizable, raw and ragged. "I'm going to fuckingkillhim?—"
"Rex, stop!" Phoenix grunts, struggling to hold him back.
For a second, it looks like Rex might actually break free and finish what he started. His muscles bunch under Phoenix's grip, and he surges forward with enough force to drag both men a step closer to Stephen's crumpled form.
Then he goes limp.
Not gradually. Not like someone giving up.
Like hisbodygave up.
Phoenix catches Rex before he hits the ground, lowering him into the churned-up grass and dirt with surprising gentleness for someone who was just in a physical altercation.
