Chapter 10 – BELLS #2
"Maybe because I don't particularly feel like tearing anyone apart right now."
"Liar." The word is soft, dangerous. "You want to tear me apart. I can see it in your eyes. Use it."
Something hot and angry unfurls in my chest. He wants emotion? He wants feeling? Fine. I'll give him so much feeling he chokes on it.
Rex steps even closer, and now I can feel the heat radiating off his body.
My back hits the mic stand, the cold metal pressing against my spine through my jacket.
He's got me trapped between him and the equipment, and we both know it.
His visible eye tracks over my face, searching for weakness and fear.
He won't find either.
"Again," he commands, his voice low enough that Phoenix and Rafael probably can't hear from across the studio. "And this time, stop pretending you've never wanted anything but mediocrity in this life."
The jab lands exactly where he intended it to. My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails digging crescents into my palms.
"Back the fuck up," I growl, but he doesn't move. If anything, he leans in closer, until I can see the silver studs on his mask catching the shitty fluorescent lighting.
"Make me."
The words ghost across my skin.
That's it. That's fucking it.
I shove him back—hard—and grab the mic like it's a weapon. "Phoenix, count us in again."
Phoenix looks between us, clearly confused by whatever the fuck is happening, but he does it. The drums kick in, Rafael's bass sliding underneath, and Rex picks up his guitar again, that single eye never leaving mine.
This time, I don't hold back.
I channel every ounce of rage I've been swallowing for the past two weeks into the opening line. All the fury at being blackmailed, at having my life torn apart, at being forced to stand here and pretend like this is anything other than extortion.
"Taste of copper in my teeth—"
My voice comes out raw, bleeding at the edges. I think about the blood on my hands when I cut his mask strap, the metallic tang of fear when I thought he might actually kill me in that storage room.
"—like I've been biting through my fucking tongue—"
I move with the music now, letting my body tell the story my voice is painting. Every word drips with the kind of venom I've been storing up since that night at Restaurant Elysium, when he sat there in his expensive suit and calmly took my life apart.
"—just to keep from saying what I really think of you."
Rex's fingers move easily over his guitar strings, but I catch the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens behind the mask.
The chorus hits, and I lean into it with everything I've got. My voice cracks on the high notes, not from inexperience but from pushing too hard, too fast, too much. It sounds like I'm being torn apart from the inside, which isn't far from the truth.
By the time we hit the bridge, I'm practically snarling the words. My voice has gone rough and ragged, nothing like the polished performances I gave with The Reverie.
This is raw.
Unfiltered.
Real.
Phoenix and Rafael are locked in now, feeding off the energy I'm putting out. The music swells around us, dark and hungry and violent. This is what I'm supposed to sound like.
Not pretty, not safe.
Visceral and dangerous.
The final verse approaches, and I lock eyes with Rex again. He hasn't moved from his position, guitar slung low across his hips, his gaze burning into mine with a hatred tinged with grudging acknowledgment that matches my own.
"I want to tear you apart—"
The words feel like a confession. Because I do. I want to destroy him the way he's destroying me. Want to rip that mask off his face and show the world exactly what he's hiding. Want to make him feel as exposed and vulnerable as I do every day of my damn life.
"—piece by piece until there's nothing fucking left!"
My voice breaks on the last line, cracking into something that's almost a scream. The music cuts out abruptly, leaving just the echo of my breathing in the sudden silence.
Nobody moves for a long moment.
Phoenix is staring at me with his mouth slightly open, drumsticks frozen mid-air. Rafael's got one eyebrow raised, a slow smile spreading across his face.
And Rex is perfectly still, that single eye unreadable as it tracks over my face. I'm breathing hard, chest heaving against the restrictive binder, sweat trickling down my spine. The silence stretches between us, taut as a wire about to snap.
"Well," Rafael finally says, breaking the tension. "That was intense."
"Holy shit, Bells," Phoenix breathes. "Where did that come from?"
I don't answer, can't answer, because Rex is walking toward me again. He stops just outside of arm's reach, head tilted slightly as he studies me.
"It'll do," he says finally, voice flat and unaffected, like I didn't just pour my entire soul out through that microphone.
The dismissal makes me want to drive my knife into the eyehole of his mask. After all that—after stripping myself raw and bleeding all over his stupid song—all he can say is it'll do?
"Go fuck yourself," I spit, shoving past him toward the door. I need air, need space, need to be anywhere but here.
"Where are you going, Bells?" Rex calls after me, sounding almost bored. "We have eleven more songs to get through."
I freeze at the door, hand on the handle. Eleven more songs. Eleven more times I have to stand there and let him dissect me, push me, break me down and rebuild me into whatever shape he needs for his revenge plot.
"I need five minutes," I manage through gritted teeth.
"You have two."
I slam the door behind me hard enough to rattle the psychedelic paintings on the walls.
The hallway is marginally cooler than the studio, and I lean against the wall, trying to catch my breath. My chest aches where the binder digs in, and I can feel my pulse hammering in my throat. The leather collar covering the incomplete mark on my neck feels like it's choking me.
This is what the next six months will be like. Rex pushing and pushing until I either break or explode. Using my own emotions against me. Using them for his music.
And the worst part is, it worked. That performance was better than anything I ever did with The Reverie.
More real, more powerful, more...
More everything.
I hate that he knew exactly which buttons to push to get what he wanted. Hate that some part of me—some fucked-up, traitorous part—actually felt alive in there for the first time in years.
Maybe for the first time in my life.
The door opens and Phoenix's massive frame fills the doorway. "Hey," he says softly, like he's approaching a spooked animal. "You okay?"
"Peachy," I mutter, not meeting his eyes.
He steps into the hallway, closing the door behind him. "Look, I know Rex can be... intense. But that thing you just did in there? That was incredible. I haven't heard anything that raw since—" He cuts himself off, and I know he was about to say Nash's name.
"Since your previous singer?"
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 was holding 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.