Page 109 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
"Your singer." Stephen's laugh turns into a cough that makes the monitors chirp. When he recovers, that calculating look is back. "Tha's all?"
I don't answer. Don't give him the satisfaction.
"Y'got a thing for my songbird?" The words are deliberate despite the wiring. Each one chosen, weighted. "Tha' it? Gonna tell me the big bad Rex Steele caught feelings? That's a shame, considerin' the state o' your face. The look in your eyes suggests it." The corners of his dry lips twitch. "Eye."
My songbird.
The pet name makes my blood run cold, then flushes boiling hot.
"Shut your fucking mouth?—"
"You think nobody took pictures in the OR?" Stephen cuts me off, and something in his tone makes my spine lock up. "Rex Steele, mysterious masked frontman of Vespyr, finally exposed? That's worth money.Lotsof money."
The room temperature drops about twenty degrees.
Or maybe that's just my blood turning to ice.
"I have connections," Stephen continues, drool gathering on his swollen lower lip and dribbling down his chin. "Connections you wouldn' believe. Connections in hospitals, in media, in places you've ne'er e'en thought to look."
He's bluffing. Has to be. My mind won't accept that he isn't.
But I know firsthand that rules don't matter when enough money's involved. Know that someone in the OR probably had a phone in their pocket. Probably saw an opportunity. Probably?—
"You want proof?" Stephen's visible eye is practically glowing with malicious satisfaction. "Han' me my phone. I'll show you exac'ly what I'll broadcast to the entire world if you don' end this bullshit with Bells and send him back to me."
My hand moves before conscious thought catches up. Grabs the IV stand. Yanks it toward me with enough force that tubingrips free from Stephen's arm, tape tearing skin, the catheter leaving a bloody mark in its wake.
"Fuck!" Stephen's scream is garbled by wiring. His hand flies to the wound, pressing against it reflexively.
The heart monitor goes ballistic. Alarms start shrieking. Somewhere down the hall, I hear running footsteps.
I lean down close enough that Stephen shrinks back.
"You better fuckingpraythey find a reason to keep you in this hospital," I whisper, voice dropping to something barely human. "Because the minute you're discharged? The second you're out there where I can reach you?"
I let that hang. Let him imagine exactly what I'm capable of. What I've already done and what I'll do again without hesitation.
"You're a dead man."
Stephen's puffy eyes are wide now.
"Oops." I straighten, letting the IV pole clatter against the bed frame. "Looks like I knocked something loose."
The door bursts open. Nurses flood in, all professional urgency and controlled panic. One of them spots me immediately.
"Sir, you need to leave?—"
"Sorry. Shit depth perception." I gesture lazily toward the mask I can barely see through, already moving toward the exit, past the swarm of scrubs and concerned faces. "Visiting hours, right?"
I don't run. Don't hurry. Just walk with measured steps through the hallway while behind me the controlled chaos continues. Voices calling for a doctor. Stephen's garbled protests. The eternal beeping of his machines.
The elevator can't come fast enough.
When the doors finally close, sealing me in blessed solitude, I let my head fall back against the wall. Close the one eye that can still close normally. Try to remember how to fucking breathe.
Pictures.
Stephen has fuckingpictures.
My entire fucking existence hangs on whether some underpaid OR staff decided whatever the fuck Stephen gave them was worth risking it all.
Because there’s no way in hell I’m letting that scumbag anywhere near Bells ever again.
And if that means I have to finish Stephen Hughes off myself, so fucking be it.
To be continued…
