Page 94 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
The rain has picked up, drumming against the Impala's roof as Rafael navigates through Seattle's late-night streets. Neitherof us speaks. We're both too busy trying to breathe through the phantom scent still clinging to our clothes, our skin, our goddamnsouls.
"There," I point to a twenty-four-hour department store that looks like it caters to people having middle-of-the-night crises. Perfect.
Rafael parks and we sprint through the downpour into the fluorescent hell of late-night retail. A tired-looking beta employee glances up from her phone, takes one look at us—two soaking wet alphas with blown pupils and desperate energy—and immediately goes back to scrolling.
Smart woman.
"Blankets," Rafael mutters, already heading toward home goods. "Soft ones. What's soft? Fleece? Cotton? Fuck, I don't know what's soft."
I grab his arm before he can have a full breakdown in the bedding aisle. "Anything plush. Just grab whatever feels good."
We split up, each taking a cart. I head for pillows first because you can never have too many pillows when you're nesting. The memory of that trunk in my room—the one I filled with supplies I never thought I'd use because Nash was an alpha and we couldn't have that kind of relationship—hits me square in the chest.
But Bells isn't Nash.
And this isn't that.
I grab every soft pillow I can find. Down, memory foam, those weird ones shaped like donuts. Into the cart they go. Then blankets. A weighted one because pressure might help. A fuzzy sherpa one that's so soft I almost want one for myself. A silk one that costs as much as a vintage but fuck it, omegas deserve nice things.
Especially Bells.
Rafael appears with his own overflowing cart, looking mildly deranged.
"Did you buy the entire store?" I ask.
"Shut up."
We hit the snack aisle next because omegas in heat need to eat even if they don't want to. Protein bars, crackers, fruit cups, chocolate because that's non-negotiable. Water bottles. Sports drinks for electrolytes. I grab some of those fancy herbal teas that claim to help with cramps.
"Should we get him clothes?" Rafael asks, eyeing the sleepwear section. "Something comfortable?"
I pause. "Actually, yeah. Grab a few of those oversized hoodies. The kind that swallow you whole."
Rafael does, adding them to his cart along with a giant, floppy plush white rabbit.
"What?" he says defensively when he catches me looking. "It matches his hoodie."
Twenty minutes later, we're back at the hotel with enough supplies to nest a small army. The employee who checked us out definitely thought we were insane, but she didn't comment on the two giant alphas buying out the comfort section at three in the morning.
Professionalism. I can respect that.
I knock softly on the adjoining door. "Bells? We're back. Can we bring stuff in?"
Shuffling sounds. Then the lock clicks and the door cracks open just enough for me to see one honey-colored eye peering out.
"Just... put everything by the door," Bells says, his voice still wrecked. "I'll grab it."
"You sure? We can help you arrange things?—"
"No." The word is sharp, final. "Just leave it. Please."
So we do. We pile everything just inside the threshold—blankets, pillows, snacks, water, the ridiculous plush rabbit that Rafael insists on placing on top like a cherry on a very soft sundae.
The door closes before we're even done. We hear Bells moving around, dragging things further into the room, making small sounds that bypass my brain and go straight to every protective instinct I possess.
Rafael and I retreat to our room. The door between us stays unlocked on our side, just in case.
Hours pass. The sky outside starts to lighten from black to deep gray, false dawn promising a morning neither of us will actually sleep through. The scent has only gotten stronger, more concentrated, more impossible to ignore.
