Page 55 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
"It does if it made you freeze like prey."
The wordpreymakes me want to puke. Because that's exactly what I felt like in that moment. A kid again, trapped in a dressing room with a crazed fan turned stalker, feeling teeth sink into my throat.
I force the memory down, shoving it back into the locked box where it belongs. "It reminded me of something. That's all."
Rex's eye narrows. "Someone hurt you."
It's not a question.
Silence fills the space between us, heavy and oppressive. I should leave. Should walk out of this room and never look back. But my feet stay planted on the ugly hospital linoleum.
"Thanks," I mutter finally, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. "For what you did. Even if you only did it because you need me for your unhinged revenge plot."
Rex's expression hardens, every hint of vulnerability disappearing behind walls of steel. "Don't," he says coldly. "Don't make this into something it's not. I would've done the same for anyone in that position. I fuckinghatepredators. This doesn't change anything between us. We're still at war."
"Good," I snap back, matching his energy. "Because I wasn't planning on declaring peace."
But something has shifted between us, and we both know it. Some invisible line has been crossed, and neither of us can uncross it no matter how much we want to. The knowledge sits between us like a third presence in the room.
Rex's eye tracks over my face, searching for something I'm not willing to give. Then his expression shifts, but it's no less cold. I can't read this fucking alpha to save my life. His whole face might as well be a mask.
"Get out of Nash's room," he says abruptly.
I blink, thrown by the sudden shift. "Phoenix already told me this morning. It's fine, I told him I'll get a motel?—"
"I'm not done." He cuts me off, voice sharp despite the exhaustion dragging at the edges. His hand reaches for the water cup on the bedside table, and I watch his fingers tremble—whether from weakness or the drugs, I can't tell. He starts to bring it to his lips, then has to pause and tilt his head to the left—that same careful angle I noticed at the restaurant—trying to drink from the undamaged side of his mouth.
Even with that precaution, water immediately starts seeping through the white bandages near his mouth, spreading in a dark stain across the gauze. He notices me watching and jerks his head away sharply, turning toward the window so I can only see his undamaged left side.
"Fuck," he mutters, setting the cup down with trembling hands. More water sloshes over the rim, pooling on the sterile white sheets. His whole body goes rigid, like he's bracing for a blow. "Can't even drink water without..." His voice cracks, raw and broken. "Without making a fucking mess. Can't doanything. Can't eat. Can't drink. Can't even?—"
He cuts himself off, but not before I hear the self-loathing dripping from every word. His hand comes up to press against the wet bandages, and when he speaks again, his voice is thick with disgust so visceral I can taste it. "Pathetic. Fuckingpathetic."
Something twists in my chest. Sharp and unexpected.
I've spent weeks hating this man. Weeks being terrified of him, being angry at him, wanting to destroy him the way he's destroying me. But watching him sit there, unable to perform the simple act of drinking water, calling himself pathetic for having a body that's been through hell...
I know what that feels like.
Different circumstances, different prison, but I know what it's like to hate the body you're trapped in. To feel like a failure for not being able to do basic things that come naturally to everyone else.
"Rex—" I start, but I don't know how to finish. Don't know how to offer comfort to someone who's blackmailing me. Someone who'd probably throw any kindness back in my face.
"Don't," he grits out, still not looking at me. "Don't you dare fucking pity me."
"I wasn't going to," I lie, shoving down the unwanted sympathy trying to claw its way up my throat. Because acknowledging it means acknowledging he's human. Acknowledging he's hurting in ways that have nothing to do with the infection.
And I can't afford to see him that way.
"I'd offer to help, but I'm pretty sure you'd punch me in the face," I add with an awkward laugh, because what the fuck else am I supposed to say?
"I don't punch girls," he grits out.
My eye twitches. Great. Chivalry from my blackmailer. How fucking quaint.
Before I can tell him off for that, he looks at me again and holds up his palm, IV tape and all. "You're safer in the penthouse? Fine. Use my room."
I just stare at him, mouth slightly open as I process the bomb he just dropped. "Yourroom?" I finally manage. "You want me to stay inyourroom?"
