Page 89 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
"Thanks," I mutter, squeezing through the crowd to get to the bathroom. Surprisingly, it's blessedly empty. I lock myself in a stall, leaning my forehead against the cool metal door, trying to orient myself.
Something's wrong.
Notwrongwrong, but... off. My skin feels too tight, too hot. The binder is suddenly unbearable, pressing against my ribs like it's trying to crush the air from my lungs. And there's this ache, low in my abdomen, that has nothing to do with any alcohol interaction I've ever had before.
No.
No no no.
I can't be going into fucking heat. My hormones aren'tthatscrewed up.
The bathroom door opens. Voices filter in—two guys talking about some label drama I don't care about. I stay frozen in the stall, willing them to leave, willing this feeling to pass.
It doesn't pass.
It gets worse.
Heat spreads through my core like wildfire, making my thighs clench involuntarily. Slick starts to gather, and I bite down on my fist to keep from making a sound. This isn't a full heat—can't be, the suppressants won't allow it—but it's enough. Enough to be obvious, enough to broadcast what I am to every alpha in the vicinity.
The men leave. I stumble out of the stall on legs that don't quite work right, gripping the sink for support. My reflection stares back at me—flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, lips parted and dry enough to stick together as I try to breathe through the mounting need.
I splash cold water on my face. It helps for about five seconds before the heat comes roaring back.
Someone drugged me.
The realization hits with crystal clarity. But how? I didn't take any drinks from anyone at all, only off the communal trays.
Unless…
Unless someone spikedallthe drinks in hopes of triggering heats in omegas. And I'm the only omega in attendance, unless there are others pretending to be betas and alphas, too. But those drugs are expensive—expensive enough no one would waste that kind of money by spiking all the drinks, unless they were filthy rich, unless they werepositivethey were going to go to an omega that made it worth it to them to blow that kind of cash.
Fuck.
I've spent years watching shadows, waiting for my stalker to pop up around every corner, and yet the idea still feels a bit too paranoid. But here I am, spiraling into the beginnings of an artificial heat despite the industrial strength suppressants I've been downing in greater quantities than ever.
My stalker is here.
Watching me.
Waiting to see what happens when I'm vulnerable and desperate and surrounded by alphas who will smell what I am, who will know my male beta mask is completely fucking fake.
I need to get out. Need to find Rafael and Phoenix and leave before this gets worse. Before someone notices and my entire carefully constructed identity shatters.
I shove through the bathroom door back into the party. The noise is overwhelming now, every sound scraping against my nerves like sandpaper. And the scents—gods, thescents. Every alpha in the room suddenly smells appealing in a way that makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
Rafael is still right where he said he'd be even though it has to have been at least half an hour since I asked him to wait. He's talking to someone I don't recognize. I make my way toward him, trying to look normal, trying not to stumble.
"Raf," I manage, my voice hoarse. "I need to leave. Now."
He takes one look at my face and his expression shifts immediately. "What happened?"
"I don't—I can't—" The words won't come out right. Everything's starting to fragment at the edges, reality blurring into sensation. "Please. I need to go."
"Okay." He's already moving, one hand on my elbow to steady me. "Let me find Phoenix."
"No time." Another wave hits, stronger than the last, and I nearly double over. "Outside. Need air."
Rafael doesn't argue. He guides me through the crowd toward the exit, his grip firm and grounding.
