Page 62 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
She's touching my shit.
I watch through the camera feed on my phone—the one Phoenix smuggled in with my other belongings, like my simple black mask, when the nurses weren't looking—as Bells picks up the mask that must have fallen from the wall display. It's one of my favorites, actually. Blood red filigree with black leather backing, intricate enough that it took the craftsman three months to complete.
Her fingers trace the patterns with something that looks like reverence. Not the morbid curiosity I'd expect, knowing why I hide my face. Just... strange careful attention. Like she's trying to understand the artistry in it and appreciating it.
Then she hangs it back up, adjusting it until it sits perfectly aligned with the others.
The pain medication makes everything feel distant, wrapped in cotton, but that doesn't stop the spike of irritation that cuts through the pharmaceutical haze. I don't like that she touched that, even if it fell off the wall.
I gave her clear instructions, and what does she do?
Goes straight for the fucking masks.
She moves to stand in front of my wardrobe now, hand hovering over the handle. I can practically see the debate playing out in her head. To snoop or not to snoop. That's the eternal question when you're given access to someone's private space, isn't it?
Her hand drops.
She doesn't open it.
Huh.
Most people would've torn through everything the second they thought no one was watching. Phoenix and Rafael included, not that they'd ever admit it. But Bells just backs away from the wardrobe like it might bite her and settles cross-legged on my bed instead, pulling out her laptop. The screen's glow illuminates her face in the dimly lit room.
I'm moving to turn off the feed when I hear her voice.
"I know you're watching me, Rex."
I freeze.
Most people never notice when they're being watched, too caught up in their own narratives to sense the external gaze. But Bells has instincts honed by something, some experience that taught her to be hyperaware of her surroundings.
Probably whatever the fuck had her freeze like that when Stephen cornered her against my recording studio.
Her gaze flicks to the camera in the upper corner of the room. I don't hide it. There's no reason to. And I wouldn't watch her from a hidden camera. In the soft glow from her laptop, she makes eye contact with me through my phone screen.
Is that asmirk?
She sets her laptop aside with deliberate slowness, never breaking eye contact with the camera. Then her hands go to the hem of the oversized white hoodie she's wearing—one with fucking rabbit ears on the hood, of all things, like she's playingwith the prey aesthetic—and starts pulling it up slowly, revealing the pale skin of her stomach, the edge of her binder, her…
Oh,fuckno.
My thumb hits the power button before my brain fully processes what I'm doing. The feed goes black, leaving me staring at my own bandaged reflection in the darkened phone screen.
My cock twitches against the hospital sheets and I want to punch something. Preferably myself.
What the fuck was she thinking? Stripping in my room, knowing I'm watching, like this is some kind of game.
Except... that's exactly what it is, isn't it?
A game.
And she just won this round.
SheknewI was watching. Knew I have cameras. And instead of being intimidated, she used it against me. Wearing that fucking rabbit hoodie like she's mocking the entire situation. Saying with actions and not words:I see your intimidation tactics and raise you weaponized cuteness, asshole.
The worst part?
She knew I would look away.
