Page 57 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
Chapter
Seventeen
BELLS
I'm standing outside Rex's door like an idiot, staring at the keypad like it might bite me.
Four numbers that somehow feel like crossing the Rubicon. Once I punch in that code and step through this door, I'm officially invading enemy territory. Sleeping in the bed of the man who's blackmailing me. Using his space. Breathing his air.
Getting my scent all over his fucking sheets.
Shit.
That's the part that makes my stomach knot. The suppressants work—they have to, or I wouldn't have survived this long—but they're not foolproof. Especially not when I'm stressed, which I perpetually fucking am. There's always a chance, however small, that traces of vanilla and cinnamon might seep through the chemical barrier and cling to fabric, to pillows, to the very air in that room.
And Rex is an alpha. A paranoid, observant alpha who notices everything.
"You good?" Rafael's voice cuts through my spiral. He's leaning against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed, watching me with those dark, intense eyes that feel like they can see rightthrough me. Phoenix hovers near the living room, pretending not to stare but absolutely staring.
"Yeah," I lie, punching in the code before I can overthink it more than I already have. "Just... weird."
"No shit it's weird," Rafael says, pushing off the wall. "Rex doesn't letanyonein his room. Not even Phoenix, and they've been packmates for fucking years."
Phoenix nods, looking almost insulted. "I've seen the inside of that room exactly twice. Both times he stood in the doorway like a bouncer at a club, making sure I didn't step past the threshold."
"So why the fuck is he letting me stay here?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
They both give me identical looks that sayyou tell us.
The lock clicks and the door swings open. I step inside before they can ask more questions I can't answer, closing it behind me with a soft snick.
Then I just stand there, back pressed against the door, taking it all in.
Rex's room is... not what I expected.
It's massive, for one thing. Easily twice the size of Nash's room, occupying what must be the entire corner of the building. Floor-to-ceiling windows line two walls, offering a panoramic view of Seattle's skyline. The city sprawls below like scattered diamonds, lights twinkling against the gray afternoon sky.
But it's the security that makes my skin prickle.
There are cameras. Multiple cameras. One pointed at the door I just walked through, capturing anyone who approaches from the hallway. Another angled toward the windows, probably motion-activated. A third tucked in the corner near what looks like a walk-in closet.
Rex isn't just careful. He's fucking paranoid.
Or maybe he has good reason to be.
The furniture is minimalist—expensive but sparse. A king-sized bed dominates the center of the room, black sheets pulled tight enough to bounce a quarter off. No decorative pillows, no throw blankets. Just functional. A massive desk sits near one window, covered in recording equipment and what looks like mixing software on dual monitors. Guitar cases line one wall, at least seven of them, ranging from acoustic to electric. Masks hang on the opposite wall like trophies or warnings, each one more elaborate than the last. Silver and black, leather and metal, some with intricate filigree, others sleek and minimalist.
It's a shrine and a fortress all at once.
I move deeper into Rex's room, my boots sinking into plush carpeting that must have cost a small fortune. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of electronics and the muffled sounds of the city filtering through the windows.
That's when I notice it.
Or rather, what Idon'tnotice.
No mirrors.
Not a single fucking mirror anywhere in the main room. I turn slowly, scanning the walls, the corners, the spaces between furniture. Nothing. No full-length mirror leaning artfully against the wall. No decorative mirror above the dresser. Not even one of those small vanity mirrors musicians usually have scattered around for last-minute checks before going on stage.
