Page 32 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
Phoenix's expression shifts, something sad and distant flickering across his features. "Yeah. Since Nash." He drags a hand through his messy blond hair. "Rex isn't trying to be an asshole. Well, okay, he kind of is. But it's more than that. He needs this music to be perfect. Needs it to mean something."
"Why?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Phoenix gives me a long look, like he's debating how much to tell me. "Because it's all he has left of his brother. These songs, this band—it's the only way he knows how to keep Nash alive."
"That doesn't give him the right to—" I start, but Phoenix cuts me off.
"No, it doesn't. But grief makes people do fucked-up shit." He reaches out like he's going to touch my shoulder, then seems to think better of it. "Just... try to remember that under all that anger and aggression, Rex is drowning."
"We're all drowning," I mutter.
Phoenix's blue eyes soften. "Yeah," he murmurs. "I'm starting to see that."
The door opens again and Rafael leans out. "Rex says your two minutes are up. Time to threaten and traumatize us with another song."
I push off from the wall, squaring my shoulders. "Fine. Let's get this over with."
But as I walk back into the studio, I catch Rex watching me. I can't read this alpha's expressions to save my life. And I mean that literally. Even though only half his face is covered by that mask, it might as well cover all of it for how utterly impassive and cold his features are.
"Next song," Rex says, picking up his guitar again. "'Suffocate.' And this time, try not to hold back."
I almost laugh at that.Hold back? I just bled out all over his studio floor and he thinks I washolding back?
But then I realize what he's doing. He's pushing again, seeing how far he can go before I snap completely. Testing my limits, finding my breaking points.
This studio isn't just a recording space. It's a battleground. And we're going to spend the next six months tearing each other apart. Every song is another skirmish in a war that's only just beginning.
Rex counts us in for the next song.
I grab the mic like it's a sword.
Let the battle fucking begin.
Chapter
Eleven
PHOENIX
Seven days of watching Bells tear himself apart and rebuild himself song by song, and I can't stop fucking watching.
It's Tuesday afternoon at Foxhole Studios, and he's in the booth running through "Crimson Throne" for the fifth time because Rex keeps finding microscopic flaws that only exist in his twisted perfectionist brain. Bells's white hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, lip curling into an irritated sneer and those gold eyes blazing every time Rex stops him mid-verse.
And fuck me, he's…hot.
This isn't supposed to happen. I like women. Sure, I've noticed when a guy's attractive, appreciated the aesthetics like you'd admire a piece of art. But this? This burning need to press Bells against the studio wall and find out what sounds he'd make if I bit that leather collar right off his throat?
This is different.
The only other time I've felt anything close to this was with Nash.
Nash, who moved through the world like water where other alphas stomped and demanded. Nash, whose scent was cedar and rain. Nash, who'd slip into my bunk at three in the morningand let me fuck him like he was trying to let me crawl under his skin.
We never put a label on it. Couldn't, really. Two alphas together isn't exactly widely accepted, even in the rock world where everything's supposedly permitted. Fucking is one thing, but love? I still don't know if I loved him that way. And I hate that I thought we had all the time in the world to figure it out.
I haven't been with anyone serious since he died. Just random hookups with women. Safe. Forgettable. Nothing that could rip my heart out of my chest again.
But watching Bells perform is anything but safe.
