Page 70 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
But I am scared.
And he knows it.
And worse, he's doing something about it without making me explain why. Kindness from Rex of all people is the last thing I need. It's probably some kind of alphahole power play.
"This is ridiculous," I say anyway, because I need to put up some kind of fight. "You just got out of the hospital. You should be in your own bed?—"
"Bells." The way he says my name—soft but with an edge of warning—makes me stop. "Leave. Your. Things."
I think about what Phoenix said earlier. How Rex is chivalrous, just not with men. How we only see his bad side because we're not the right gender to trigger whatever protective alpha instincts are hardwired into his brain.
It makes me want to roll my eyes so hard they fall out of my skull.
But I also think about those roses in the trash. About Bryan's elegant handwriting promising to make the universe revolve around me again. About how locks never stopped him before, and he knows exactly where to find me.
"Fine," I mutter, dropping my bag back by the desk with probably more force than necessary.
Rex goes back to playing his guitar, the soft melody filling the space between us. I should leave. Should get out of his room and let him pack whatever he needs for Rafael's space.But something keeps me rooted to the spot, watching his fingers move over the strings.
"What is that?" I ask before I can stop myself. "The song."
His fingers still for just a moment, so brief I almost miss it. "Something Nash wrote."
Of course it is. Everything in Rex's world revolves around his dead brother. The music, the revenge, the crushing weight of guilt I can see in every line of his body even when he's trying to pretend he's made of stone. As if he blames himself for Nash's death. As if whatever demons tortured Nash werehisfault, somehow.
"It's pretty," I say, which feels inadequate but true.
"Nash was good at pretty." There's something soft in Rex's voice, an unguarded moment that makes him sound almost human. Then he seems to catch himself, straightening slightly with a low, dry laugh. "Unlike his lyrics, which were about as subtle as a sledgehammer to the face."
"Sounds like you loved him."
The words slip out before I can stop them, and I immediately want to take them back. Rex goes completely still, that single visible eye fixed on me.
"I did," he says quietly. "More than anything."
The raw honesty of it catches me off guard. No deflection, no anger, no walls. Just truth, sitting between us like a third presence in the room.
"I'm sorry," I say, because what else is there to say? "That you lost him."
Rex's fingers find the strings again, picking out a few notes that sound like grief translated to music. "Everyone's sorry. Doesn't bring him back."
"No," I agree. "It doesn't."
We sit in silence for a moment, him on his bed with the guitar, me hovering awkwardly by his desk like I don't knowwhether to stay or go. I don't know why he's still here if he wants to give me his room. I still can't read him to save my fucking life, apparently. But for once, I'm not sensing malicious intent.
And his playing is admittedly beautiful.
"I should go," he murmurs, as if he can read me far better than I can read him. I watch him set his guitar aside one last time and stand, my brain still trying to catch up with what's happening. He's actually doing this. Actually giving up his fortress of a room—with all its security and privacy—for me. The Rex Steele who guards his space like a dragon guards gold is just... walking away from it.
Because I'm fucking scared.
Because henoticedI'm fucking scared.
His arm brushes mine on his way past me. I don't know what to say to him, so I just stand there, watching, as he goes to his wardrobe and lifts a bag out of one of the drawers. He starts pulling clothes from hangers, folding them in silence.
"Why do you give a shit about me?" I ask, because I at least want totryto understand what the fuck is going through his head.
He pauses, a black shirt half-folded in his hands. "I don't."
