Claimed By the Rockstars, Part One (Fameverse #4)

Chapter 1 – BELLS

Chapter

One

BELLS

Twenty thousand throats scream my name in perfect synchronization.

BELLS. BELLS. BELLS.

The chant pounds against my ribs harder than Mike's drums, and I lean into it, letting their worship wash over me like absolution I don't fucking deserve.

"Seattle!" I growl into the mic, and they lose their goddamn minds.

I straddle the mic stand, leather pants creaking with the movement, and wrap my fingers around the metal pole like I'm about to fuck it.

Sweat trickles down my spine, pooling where the compression shirt binds my chest flat.

Six inches of medical-grade silicone presses uncomfortably against my thigh, but I've learned to move with it, make it part of the performance.

"You beautiful fucking degenerates ready to sin with me tonight?"

The arena erupts. Twenty thousand sets of hands thrust masquerade masks into the air—cheap plastic things that came with admission, turning the crowd into a sea of glittering anonymity.

They don't know I wear my own mask every goddamn day, and mine costs a hell of a lot more than twelve ninety-five.

Jake's guitar screams to life beside me, the opening riff of "Golden Crown" cutting through the chaos. I grip the mic and let my voice drop to a whisper that somehow carries to the nosebleeds.

"You think you know me..."

The crowd goes silent. Twenty thousand people holding their breath.

"Think you own me..."

Jake steps closer, his six-foot-one frame dwarfing mine. Alpha pheromones roll off him in waves, but the cocktail of suppressants and scent-blockers I mainline keeps me from reacting. Just another beta male up here, playing at being dangerous.

This is what they came for. This is what they paid good money to see—Bells, the enigmatic frontman who might kiss his guitarist, might strip off his shirt, might crowd-surf into their waiting hands and let them tear him apart.

They want to consume me, and I feed them just enough to keep them starving.

Jake's hand finds my throat, fingers wrapping around the leather collar that never fucking comes off. The one that hides the crescent-shaped scar some psycho gave me in another life, when I was still stupid enough to think fame meant something other than painting a target on your back.

He leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts across my cheek.

The crowd loses their collective shit, thousands of phone cameras capturing this moment that means absolutely nothing.

His lips hover an inch from mine, and I can smell the whiskey he knocked back before we went on, the cigarettes he thinks I don't know he still smokes.

"But baby, I'm NOBODY'S fucking prey!"

I scream the last line and shove Jake back so hard he stumbles. The lights cut to black. The crowd explodes and I stumble off stage in the dark, laughing from the adrenaline of the roar behind us.

"Fuck, that was incredible," Jake breathes, slinging his arm around my shoulders. "That thing with the mic stand? They ate that shit up."

I shrug him off. "Yeah, well, that's what they pay for."

Backstage is chaos. Roadies rushing to break down equipment, security holding back the few fans who managed to slip through, various music industry vampires waiting to suck us dry. I push through it all, heading for the dressing room with single-minded determination.

"Bells! Yo, Bells!" Mike catches up, bouncing on his toes like he's still feeling the adrenaline high.

His gauge earrings catch the harsh fluorescent lights, and there's a wildness in his brown eyes that makes him look younger than his twenty-five years.

"We're hitting up Graveyard Shift for drinks. You in?"

"Can't." I don't slow down. "Got stuff."

"Stuff? What kind of stuff?" He waggles his eyebrows. "Secret Illuminati meeting? Sacrificing virgins to the rock gods? Oh wait—" He snaps his fingers. "You're Batman! You're going to go fight crime!"

"Something like that."

Jake appears on my other side, still shirtless because of course he fucking is. "Come on, man. One drink. You've been ghosting us after every show lately."

"Maybe because I don't want to watch you eye-fuck every barely legal omega, beta, and alpha that throws themselves at you."

He laughs. "Jealous?"

"In your dreams, dude."

Ethan's waiting by my dressing room door, quiet and watchful as always. He doesn't say anything, just steps aside to let me pass. But I catch the question in his dark eyes, the same one that's been there for weeks now. What's wrong? What aren't you telling us?

Everything, I want to say. I'm telling you absolutely fucking nothing because the truth would destroy everything we've built.

"Great show tonight," is what I actually say, and disappear into my dressing room, locking the door behind me.

The silence hits me like a slap. No screaming fans, no pounding drums, no Jake's guitar wailing like he's trying to raise the dead. Just me and the mirror and this fucking mask—both the literal one still perched on my head and the metaphorical one I can never take off.

I stare at my reflection, trying to see what they see.

Shaggy white hair that looks like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket.

Honey-gold eyes lined with enough eyeliner to make a raccoon jealous.

The leather collar that might as well be welded to my neck at this point.

Pale skin flushed from exertion, making me look like I've either been fighting or fucking.

But underneath all that, if you know how to look, you can still see her. Isabel Frost, former teen idol, America's sweetheart before America decided it wanted to see her destroyed.

Instead, I'm here, playing dress-up in men's clothes, pretending my body doesn't curve in all the wrong places for this charade.

The compression shirt is killing me, squeezing my ribcage until every breath feels like work.

I want to rip it off, want to unbind everything, want to exist without feeling like I'm suffocating in my own skin.

But I can't. Not here. Not anywhere, really.

A knock rattles the door, and I know who it is before he speaks. Stephen Hughes has a very specific way of knocking. Three short raps, pause, two more. Like he's spelling out his ownership in Morse code.

"It's open," I lie, then unlock it just as he tries the handle.

Stephen slides in like oil. His prematurely gray hair makes him look distinguished, trustworthy even. It's bullshit. So is his false concern.

At least Stephen is a beta. He's got that going for him.

It's the only reason I agreed to work with him in the first place—no alpha pheromones trying to control me, no real risk of him scenting what I really am through the suppressants.

After what happened with that psycho alpha who marked me, I'd rather eat glass than let another alpha have any power over me.

"Best turnout yet," he says, settling into the ratty couch like he owns that too. "Our next show in Portland's already sold out."

"Great." I start yanking off my boots, needing something to do with my hands that isn't wrapping them around his throat.

"Actually, about that." His voice takes on that tone, the one that means I'm about to get fucked without lube on every level but physical. "There's been a change. We're doing Seattle instead."

I freeze, one boot half off. "Seattle? We just played—"

"Different venue. It's a charity festival that's gotten a lot of publicity. Perfect promotion for the new album." He examines his nails, casual as fuck. "You don't mind, do you?"

It's not really a question. Nothing with Stephen is ever really a question. Starjam Records owns me body, mind, and soul—his exact words when I signed the last contract extension. He smiles like he's doing me a favor, and I want to feed him his own teeth.

"Sure. Whatever sells records, right?"

"That's my boy." The way he says boy makes my skin crawl. "You okay? You've been turning down a lot of after-parties lately."

"I'm fine."

"Because if something's wrong, if you're not happy with the direction we're taking—"

"I said I'm fine."

He stands, smoothing down his probably-expensive suit. But he doesn't leave. Instead, he moves closer.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?" His hand lands on my shoulder, and it takes everything I have not to flinch. "We're family here."

Family. Right. The kind of family that sells you to the highest bidder and calls it love.

"I know." The words taste like ash.

He squeezes my shoulder, fingers pressing just hard enough to remind me who's in charge, then finally heads for the door. "Oh, and Bells? Mario Lombardi wants to do another shoot next month. Something with a zombie theme."

"Can't wait."

He pauses at the door, looking back with those calculating eyes. "You'd tell me if something was going on, wouldn't you? If something, or someone, was... bothering you?"

"Of course," I manage, forcing a smirk. "But who's gonna bother me? I eat alphas for breakfast."

He laughs, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "That you do. Get some rest. You look tired."

The door closes behind him, and I finally let myself collapse onto the couch. My hands are shaking. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

He suspects something. The way he looked at me, the careful questions… he knows something's off. Maybe not the whole truth—maybe not that I'm a fucking secret girl omega masquerading as a male beta because the stalker fan that marked me is still out there somewhere—but enough to start digging.

And Stephen Hughes is very, very good at digging.

My reflection stares back at me from the mirror across the room. Smeared eyeliner, hair like a bird's nest, collar stark against my pale skin. A collar that covers the incomplete mark I never consented to. The incomplete mark that fucks my body over every time I have a hormonal fluctuation.

But that's Isabel's scar, Isabel's trauma, Isabel's fear.

And Isabel Frost is dead.

Long live fucking Bells.