Page 35 of My Defiant Mate
"We're The Noise Complaints," I say into the mic, my voice echoing through the small venue. "Thanks for coming out."
We launch into our first song, a fast, aggressive piece that gets the crowd moving. I lose myself in the music, in the familiar feel of strings under my fingers, the vibration of sound through my body. But unlike before, I'm not playing to drown out the world. I'm playing to connect with it. My eyes keep finding Toby in the crowd. He watches me with a focus so intense it's almost physical, like I can feel his gaze on my skin. He doesn't dance or headbang like the others. He just watches, absorbing every note.
Before our last song, I step up to the mic. "This is a new one," I say, my eyes locked on Toby. "It's about finding a clear signal in the static."
The song starts how my head used to feel—all jagged edges and noise. But then I look at him, right where I left him, and my fingers find the shift on their own. The melody cuts through. Clear. Steady.Him.
As I play the final notes, letting them hang in the air before fading to silence, I see Toby's face. There are tears in his eyes, a naked vulnerability that makes my chest ache. He gets it. He hears what I'm saying with the music that I could never put into words.
The crowd erupts into applause, louder than I expected. I nod my thanks, but my eyes never leave Toby. I play for them, but I playtohim.
After the set, I find him waiting by the bar. He hands me a cold beer, his eyes still bright with emotion. "That was incredible," he says. "That last song..."
"Did you like it?" I ask, taking a long pull from the bottle. My throat is dry from singing.
"Like it?" He shakes his head, incredulous. "Jionni, it was... it was us. I could hear us in it."
I smile, pleased that he understood. "That was the idea."
We find a quiet corner away from the crowd. Toby leans against me, his body a warm weight against my side. "The study group was weird today," he says, his voice slightly muffled by the ambient noise.
"Weird how?" My thumb traces the hem of the hoodie on his thigh. Most of my attention is on the way his hair brushes against my chin, the way his fingers absently trace patterns on my thigh.
"Sam was so on edge," Toby says. "I've never seen him so quiet. And Devan... he was juststaringat him. The whole time. Like he was trying to solve a particularly difficult equation."
I smirk, my alpha instincts recognizing the pre-claiming tension instantly. "Give 'em a week," I predict. "All that 'rivalry' is just a lit fuse. They're just waiting for the explosion."
Toby looks up at me, surprised. "You think?"
"Trust me," I say, pressing a kiss to his temple. "I know sexual tension when I see it. They're going to end up exactly like us."
"Poor Sam," Toby laughs. "He has no idea what's coming."
"Lucky Sam." I tighten my arm around him. "Finding your mate is the best thing that can happen to a person. No one knows that better than me."
***
It's late by the time we make it back to our room. The door has barely closed behind us before I'm pressing Toby against it, my mouth finding his in the darkness. He tastes like beer and desire, his body arching into mine with a perfect, practiced ease.
"That song," he murmurs against my lips. "I can't stop thinking about it."
"Good," I growl, my hands sliding under his hoodie to map the warm skin of his back. "That was the point."
The kiss deepens, slow and sure. It's different from the desperate claiming of the last few weeks. This isn't a land grab; it's a homecoming.
We undress each other slowly, a silent conversation of lingering touches and soft sighs. By the time we fall into bed, the frantic energy of the night has settled into a deep, sated contentment.
Later, I'm propped on an elbow, watching him breathe. The room is quiet except for that, and it's the best sound I've ever heard. Toby lies on his stomach, his face turned toward me, his eyes heavy-lidded with satisfaction. The sheet pools at the small of his back, revealing the elegant curve of his spine, the perfect dip at its base. His skin is a canvas of marks I've left—a bruise on his hip where I gripped too hard, a faint bite mark at the juncture of his neck and shoulder.
I trace my fingers down the line of his spine, following the bumps of vertebrae like a path I've memorized. His skin is warm and slightly damp, goosebumps rising in the wake of my touch.
"I'm designing a tattoo," I whisper, leaning down to press my lips to his shoulder blade.
He turns his head, eyes curious. "A tattoo?"
"For you," I murmur, my thumb stroking the curve of his hip. "It's the soundwave from the song. The part where the noise stops and the melody begins."
His breath catches. "You want to tattoo me?"
