Page 71 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
I arch an eyebrow at him. "Phoenix says you're chivalrous."
"Phoenix is wrong. I don't like predators. That's all."
"Why not?"
"That's none of your concern."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting."
He goes back to packing, and I should definitely leave now. Should get out and let him finish in peace and come back when he's in Rafael's room. But my feet stay planted in place, watching him pack for my benefit. It's strangely embarrassing for some reason and I still don't have any fucking answers.
"This is stupid," I say again, needing him to know that I know this is ridiculous. "You don't have to?—"
"Bells." He turns to face me, that single visible eye boring into mine. "You are afraid. You feel safe in this room. You will have more energy to practice—and perform—if you're sleeping well. It's logical."
"Since when do you do anything logical?"
His lip quirks again, that not-quite smile that makes him seem almost mortal. "I have my moments."
"Few and far between."
"Careful. I might change my mind and kick you out."
But there's no heat in the threat, and we both know he won't. Because whatever fucked-up code Rex operates by, it won't let him put me in danger. Won't let him leave me vulnerable when he has the means to protect me. I know that's what it's about. Not performing. He barely sleeps himself, and he knows I'm used to running on empty.
It's probably killing him that he gives a shit.
Rex Steele clearly doesn't do concern, doesn't do kindness, doesn't do anything that might be mistaken for human emotion. But here he is, packing his things so I can stay in his fortress because somehow, despite everything, he can't stand the thought of me being unsafe.
"The code," he says suddenly. "Change it."
"What?"
"The door code. Change it to something only you know." He closes his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. "The cameras feed to a phone app. There are instructions on my desk."
He points to a small white manual on his desk with the silhouette of a guard dog andAlphaSysprinted on the front of it. It wasn't there the previous few nights. He must have been planning to give me his fucking room since before I came in here.
"Oh,wow," I say in a flat tone. "You really don't care about me at all. There isn't a 'chivalrous' bone in your cold-as-hell's-balls body. I'mtotallyconvinced now."
His eye narrows slightly, but he doesn't otherwise acknowledge my snark. "And there's a panic button," he continues. He moves to the nightstand, pulling open a drawer to reveal what looks like a small remote. "Press it and it alerts building security plus sends an emergency signal to my phone, Phoenix's, and Rafael's."
"You really are paranoid," I mutter, but I move closer to look at the panic button anyway.
"Prepared," he corrects. "There's a difference."
"Is there though?"
He actually almost smiles at that. A real smile that reaches his visible eye for about half a second before he catches himself and schools his expression back to its usual murderous neutrality.
"The windows are reinforced," he continues, like he's giving a tour. "Bulletproof. The door can withstand significant force. There's a safe in the closet if you need to secure valuables."
I want to argue. Want to tell him I'm not some damsel who needs protecting, that I've been taking care of myself for years without his help. But there's something in his voice, some edge that makes me realize this isn't really about me at all.
This is about Rex needing to feel like he's in control. Like he can prevent bad things from happening if he just prepares enough, fortifies enough, watches closely enough.
"Understood," I say instead.
