Page 86 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
This is actually my first adventure out since going to the stone tower and almost getting eaten by a gigantic tiger named Cheeto. Hopefully, it isn't an adventure I end up regretting.
"You clean up nice," Phoenix says, catching my reflection in the mirror. His smile is warm, genuine, the kind that makes his whole face light up.
"Thanks." I shift my weight, awkward about the compliment. "Are we sure about this? Industry parties are just... people standing around pretending they like each other."
"Exactly," Rafael says, finally stepping away from the mirror. "Which is why we need to make an appearance. Network, schmooze, remind people Vespyr still exists despite our lead guitarist being a reclusive asshole who refuses to leave the penthouse."
Rex had declined the invitation immediately, of course. Not that anyone was surprised. The idea of Rex Steele at a crowded party full of industry vultures was laughable. He'd probably set the building on fire just to have an excuse to leave.
"Plus, free seafood," Phoenix adds, because of course that's his priority. "Fancyfree seafood."
Rafael grabs his keys from the dresser. "And alcohol. Expensive alcohol we didn't have to pay for."
"Sold," I mutter, even though my stomach is already twisting itself into knots.
The venue is downtown, one of those converted warehouses that's been gentrified into a bougie "art space" but still has exposed brick and industrial lighting. The kind of place that tries too hard to look effortless. I hear the bass thumping from half a block away, vibrating through the rain-soaked pavement.
Rafael hands our names to the woman at the door. She scans her tablet, nods, and waves us through without a second glance.
Inside is exactly what I expected. Too many people crammed into not enough space, everyone dressed in various interpretations of "business casual" that range from actual suits to what looks like pajamas with expensive shoes. The lighting is dim, atmospheric, hiding how dingy and… strangelystickythe space actually is under all the Instagram filters.
And thesmell.
Alphas and betas all mixed together—no omegas, we were explicitly barred from entry for "safety reasons"—their scents layered and competing, made worse by perfume and cologne and the underlying funk of too many bodies in one space. My suppressants should handle it just fine, but I still feel my omega instincts twitch uncomfortably at the sensory overload.
I scan the crowd reflexively, looking for prematurely gray hair, for that predatory stance Stephen always carries. But he's not here.Can'tbe here. Rafael checked, and I double-checked just to be sure. Stephen's still in the hospital, face held together with pins and surgical wire, recovering from what Rex did to him.
The problem is, the alpha I'mreallyafraid to run into could be anyone. He was wearing a fucking balaclava over his entire head. Hell, his name might even not be Bryan at all. And if my stalker sent those roses to Rex's penthouse, he knows whereI live. Knows I left The Reverie. Knows everything about my movements.
And parties like this are exactly where obsessed fans show up uninvited.
What's annoying is I'd feel marginally better if Rex were here. Would I be in a worse mood? Yes. Would I feel like he'd turn someone inside out if they fucked with me? Also yes.
Even if it's clearly coming from a place of irritating alpha chivalry.
"Bells?" Phoenix's voice cuts through my spiral. His huge warm hand lands on my shoulder. "You good?"
"Yeah." I force a smile. "Just... crowds."
"We can leave whenever you want," he says immediately, those soft blue eyes searching my face. "Just say the word."
Rafael's already disappeared into the throng, probably hunting down whoever's in charge of the bar. Phoenix stays close to me as we navigate through clusters of industry people. I catch snippets of conversation—label politics, tour gossip, who's fucking who and who's about to get dropped from their contract.
Standard industry bullshit.
A waiter passes with a tray of champagne flutes. Phoenix snags two, handing one to me.
"To surviving another week without Rex murdering anyone," he says, raising his glass.
I tap mine against his. "To low bars and lower expectations."
The champagne is good. Too good. The kind that goes down smooth and hits hard about ten minutes later. I sip it slowly, hyperaware of every alpha in my peripheral vision, every movement that could be someone approaching from behind.
Rafael reappears with three shot glasses balanced between his fingers. "Tequila," he announces. "Champagne is for cowards."
"I'm driving," Phoenix protests.
"More for us." Rafael offers one to me. "Bells?"
