Chapter 13 – BELLS
Chapter
Thirteen
BELLS
I'm annoyed with myself for caring.
That's the thought rattling around my skull as I push through Foxhole's main door into the parking lot, guitar case banging against my thigh. Rex Steele is a manipulative asshole who's blackmailing me into destroying my career. He deserves whatever fever-induced misery he's wallowing in.
And yet…
My feet slow as I spot his sedan across the lot.
The black paint gleams under the gray Seattle sky, raindrops beading on the hood like scattered diamonds.
Through the driver's side window, I can make out his silhouette—slumped forward, forehead pressed against the steering wheel in a posture that screams defeat in a way I didn't think Rex was capable of.
I should keep walking. Get in my Uber, go back to my shitty motel room, take off this fucking binder that's been crushing my ribs for twelve hours straight, and pretend I don't give a shit whether Rex lives or dies, let alone suffers.
But my traitorous feet have other ideas.
I'm halfway across the parking lot before I consciously decide to move. I'm not even sure why I'm checking on him, only that I am.
Then I catch movement in my peripheral vision. A figure in a suit, cutting across the parking lot from the street side. Hands in his pockets, stride confident and purposeful. Even from this distance, I recognize that prematurely gray hair, that expensive tailored jacket.
No. Fucking. Way.
"Stephen?" The name explodes out of me like a curse. "Are you fucking serious? I told you, you can't just show up here."
He doesn't break stride, just angles toward me with that smile that's supposed to be reassuring but makes my skin crawl. "Bells. We need to talk."
"No, we really don't." I adjust my grip on the guitar case, using it as a barrier between us. My other hand slides into my pocket, fingers wrapping around the bone handle of my knife. Just in case. "My lawyer already told you everything you need to know."
"Walk with me." It's not a request. It never is with Stephen.
"I'm good right here, thanks."
His smile tightens at the edges. "Please. Just five minutes. For old times' sake."
Old times' sake. Like he's some benevolent mentor instead of the man who owns my identity on paper, who's made a fortune off my voice while treating me like a particularly lucrative investment.
I glance back toward Rex's sedan. He's still in the same position, forehead against the steering wheel. He hasn't moved. Shit, is he—
Then Rex shifts. His hand comes up, rubbing sluggishly at the masked side of his face with jerky, uncoordinated movements like it's hurting him. I'm relieved in spite of everything. He's alive. Conscious. He'll be okay for a moment.
"Fine," I mutter to Stephen. "But make it quick, yeah?"
Stephen leads me around to the side of the building, out of sight of the parking lot. The alley here smells like rain and rust and something organic that's gone to rot. Perfect atmosphere for whatever fresh hell Stephen's about to unleash.
"You're making a mistake," Stephen says, turning to face me. "Walking away from The Reverie at the peak of your success. Do you have any idea what you're throwing away?"
"My sanity?" I shoot back. "My artistic integrity? Oh wait, that's right! I never had any of that with you."
His jaw tightens. "I made you, Bells. Everything you are, everything you have—"
"You didn't make shit." The words come out sharper than I intended, laced with venom I've been swallowing for years. "I made myself. You just took credit for it and cashed the checks."
"Is that what you really think?" He steps closer, invading my space in that way both alphas and betas do when they want to remind you they're bigger, stronger, more dangerous. "You think you'd be anyone without me? And yet, here I am, ready to give you a second chance."
"A second chance at what? Being your puppet?" I force myself not to back up, to hold my ground even though every instinct screams at me to run. "I'm done being anyone's anything. I don't owe you explanations. I don't owe you shit."
"You owe me everything." His voice drops to that dangerous register, the one that makes my omega instincts cringe despite the suppressants. "Your contract—"
"Expired. My lawyer made that very clear."
"Your loyalty—"
"Was never part of the deal." I'm shaking now, but it's anger, not fear. At least, that's what I'm telling myself. "And you know what? Maybe you never owned me in the first place. Maybe I was just too fucking traumatized to realize it until now."
The words surprise me even as they leave my mouth.
Because they're true. For years, I've been operating under the assumption that Stephen controls my life, my career, my identity.
But standing here in this shitty alley, rain starting to mist down from the gray sky, I realize something fundamental has shifted.
I'm not afraid of him anymore.
Then his expression changes. Something cold and menacing slides across his features, replacing the false concern and manufactured disappointment.
He leans in close, so close I can smell his expensive minty cologne. His breath ghosts across my neck, right over the spot where the leather collar hides my incomplete mark.
"That's where you're wrong."
The world narrows to a pinpoint.
I'm fifteen again, trapped in a dressing room, roses scattered across the vanity, a man in a mask saying, You're mine, you'll always be mine, as teeth sink into my throat—
Stephen's hand slides up my side, fingers ghosting dangerously close to where the binder flattens my chest, and I freeze.
Can't move. Can't breathe. Can't do anything but stand there like a deer in headlights while my brain screams at me to fight, to run, to do something—
Rex's fist materializes out of nowhere.
CRUNCH.
Stephen's head snaps back, his body following the momentum as Rex's vicious punch sends him flying into the side of the building. He hits hard enough to leave a dent in the metal siding, crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut.
Rex is on Stephen before he can fall, snarling like something feral, something barely human.
The alpha's fists rain down in a blur of violence on the beta's face, pulverizing his features like he's punching into a pumpkin and not a man, each impact accompanied by wet crunching sounds that make my stomach lurch.
Stephen's not fighting back anymore, might not even be conscious, or even alive, but Rex keeps hitting him.
And hitting him.
And hitting him.
I stare at the knife in my hand.
When did I draw my knife? Was I going to stab Stephen? The blade gleams under the gray sky, and I can't remember pulling it from my pocket, can't remember flicking it open. My hand is steady—steadier than it should be—and that scares me more than anything else.
I'm still frozen. Still locked in place while my omega instincts scream conflicting messages.
Run, hide, submit, fight, freeze—
"REX!"
Phoenix's voice cuts through the white noise in my head. He's sprinting across the parking lot, Rafael right behind him.
They grab Rex, Phoenix's strong arms wrapping around his chest while Rafael gets his legs. Rex thrashes, trying to break free, that animalistic snarl still tearing from his throat.
"Let me go!" Rex's voice is barely recognizable, raw and ragged. "I'm going to fucking kill him—"
"Rex, stop!" Phoenix grunts, struggling to hold him back.
For a second, it looks like Rex might actually break free and finish what he started. His muscles bunch under Phoenix's grip, and he surges forward with enough force to drag both men a step closer to Stephen's crumpled form.
Then he goes limp.
Not gradually. Not like someone giving up.
Like his body gave up.
Phoenix catches Rex before he hits the ground, lowering him into the churned-up grass and dirt with surprising gentleness for someone who was just in a physical altercation.
"Shit," Rafael breathes, dropping to his knees beside them. "Shit, shit, shit."
I'm still standing there, knife in hand, watching this unfold like it's happening to someone else. My body feels disconnected from my brain, operating on autopilot while my mind tries to process what just happened.
Stephen groans.
He's alive.
Bleeding from multiple wounds, face already swelling into an unrecognizable mush, but alive. He tries to push himself up and fails, collapsing back against the wall with a pained croaking sound.
Rafael pulls out his phone, fingers shaking as he dials. "Yeah, I need an ambulance. Foxhole Studios, alley on the north side. We've got two men down, one unconscious, one—" He looks at Stephen, then away quickly. "One seriously fucking injured, maybe dying. Hurry."
Phoenix has Rex rolled onto his back now, Rex looking strangely vulnerable with his head on the drummer's lap.
Rex's visible eye is closed, and even though his lashes are lighter than his dyed hair, they're dark against his skin.
The mask is askew enough that the edge of the pink and white scarring beneath is visible, the white parts of tissue the same chalky color as the rest of Rex's face.
His breathing is too fast, too shallow, and despite the cold rain, he's sweating.
And bleeding.
Bright red blood trickles consistently from beneath his mask, running over his lips and throat and pooling in the dip of his collarbone, soaking into his white shirt like roses blooming on freshly fallen snow.
Is he bleeding from where I slashed him with my knife?
"He's burning up," Phoenix mutters, more to himself than to me. "Fuck, he's been sick for days and didn't tell anyone."
Sirens wail in the distance, getting closer.
As the paramedics arrive, the parking lot transforms into a crime scene.
Stephen's still slumped against the wall, making weak attempts to push himself upright.
Rafael's standing guard over him—not to help, but to make sure he doesn't try to run or attack again.
Rafael shifts his position, keeping one eye on Stephen while watching the street. "Police probably right behind them."
Police. Shit. This is about to get complicated in ways I haven't even begun to process.
"What do we say?" I hear myself croak.
"The truth," Rafael says in a flat tone. "That Rex attacked Stephen."
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly freezing cold.
I don't want to admit the truth. That Stephen wasn't just being weird, he was being a fucking creep like every other guy in the music industry, alpha or not.
Because if I admit that, they'll be suspicious about my identity.
But I can't let them think Rex attacked Stephen out of nowhere, either.
I try to replay the scene, but it's all fragmented in my memory. Stephen's breath on my neck. His hand sliding up my side.
I shudder.
Nope. I can't think about that now. Can't process the implications of what just clicked into place. If I start down that road, I'll break, and I can't afford to break right now.
"Stephen was threatening me," I say finally, knowing if they review the tapes, that's all it will look like to them. "Rex saw it and intervened."
Rafael's brow furrows, his eyes flicking to Stephen, then the knife I'm still gripping. "And Rex intervened right before you had to gut Stephen like a fish," he says. "Just want to make sure we've got our story straight."
We stop talking when two paramedics jog toward us. They split up immediately, one heading for Stephen, the other for Rex.
"What happened?" the paramedic asks, kneeling beside Phoenix.
"He collapsed," Phoenix says. "He feels like he has a fever. He got in a fight protecting our bandmate and—"
The paramedic is already checking Rex's vitals, pulling out a thermometer, a blood pressure cuff. "Fever's 104. BP's low. Pulse is thready. We need to get him to the hospital now."
She reaches for Rex's mask.
"Don't," I say, the word leaving my mouth before I even realize I'm speaking. "Don't touch his mask."
Phoenix gives me a confused, surprised look.
The paramedic looks at me, then at Phoenix, confusion written across her face. "I need to assess his injuries—"
"You can assess them without removing it right now." My voice is steady now. Finally fucking found it, apparently. "Please."
"Is he allergic to anything?" the paramedic asks instead, apparently deciding to trust my judgment.
Phoenix rattles off information I didn't know he had. Rex's blood type, his history of refusing medical treatment, the fact that he doesn't think he's eaten in three days. The paramedic nods, making notes, calling for a stretcher.
Across the alley, they're loading Stephen onto another stretcher. He's conscious now, moaning in pain, his face a mask of blood and swelling. One of the cops who just arrived is trying to talk to him, but Stephen's words are slurred, incomprehensible.
The paramedics load Rex's stretcher into the back of the ambulance. Phoenix climbs in without hesitation, positioning himself on the small bench beside Rex's unconscious form. Rafael follows, squeezing into the cramped space.
The paramedics start to close the doors.
I don't think. I just move.
For some reason, I get in, too.