Chapter 17 – BELLS
Chapter
Seventeen
BELLS
I'm standing outside Rex's door like an idiot, staring at the keypad like it might bite me.
Four numbers that somehow feel like crossing the Rubicon. Once I punch in that code and step through this door, I'm officially invading enemy territory. Sleeping in the bed of the man who's blackmailing me. Using his space. Breathing his air.
Getting my scent all over his fucking sheets.
Shit.
That's the part that makes my stomach knot.
The suppressants work—they have to, or I wouldn't have survived this long—but they're not foolproof.
Especially not when I'm stressed, which I perpetually fucking am.
There's always a chance, however small, that traces of vanilla and cinnamon might seep through the chemical barrier and cling to fabric, to pillows, to the very air in that room.
And Rex is an alpha. A paranoid, observant alpha who notices everything.
"You good?" Rafael's voice cuts through my spiral. He's leaning against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed, watching me with those dark, intense eyes that feel like they can see right through me. Phoenix hovers near the living room, pretending not to stare but absolutely staring.
"Yeah," I lie, punching in the code before I can overthink it more than I already have. "Just... weird."
"No shit it's weird," Rafael says, pushing off the wall. "Rex doesn't let anyone in his room. Not even Phoenix, and they've been packmates for fucking years."
Phoenix nods, looking almost insulted. "I've seen the inside of that room exactly twice. Both times he stood in the doorway like a bouncer at a club, making sure I didn't step past the threshold."
"So why the fuck is he letting me stay here?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
They both give me identical looks that say you tell us.
The lock clicks and the door swings open. I step inside before they can ask more questions I can't answer, closing it behind me with a soft snick.
Then I just stand there, back pressed against the door, taking it all in.
Rex's room is... not what I expected.
It's massive, for one thing. Easily twice the size of Nash's room, occupying what must be the entire corner of the building.
Floor-to-ceiling windows line two walls, offering a panoramic view of Seattle's skyline.
The city sprawls below like scattered diamonds, lights twinkling against the gray afternoon sky.
But it's the security that makes my skin prickle.
There are cameras. Multiple cameras. One pointed at the door I just walked through, capturing anyone who approaches from the hallway. Another angled toward the windows, probably motion-activated. A third tucked in the corner near what looks like a walk-in closet.
Rex isn't just careful. He's fucking paranoid.
Or maybe he has good reason to be.
The furniture is minimalist—expensive but sparse.
A king-sized bed dominates the center of the room, black sheets pulled tight enough to bounce a quarter off.
No decorative pillows, no throw blankets.
Just functional. A massive desk sits near one window, covered in recording equipment and what looks like mixing software on dual monitors.
Guitar cases line one wall, at least seven of them, ranging from acoustic to electric.
Masks hang on the opposite wall like trophies or warnings, each one more elaborate than the last. Silver and black, leather and metal, some with intricate filigree, others sleek and minimalist.
It's a shrine and a fortress all at once.
I move deeper into Rex's room, my boots sinking into plush carpeting that must have cost a small fortune. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of electronics and the muffled sounds of the city filtering through the windows.
That's when I notice it.
Or rather, what I don't notice.
No mirrors.
Not a single fucking mirror anywhere in the main room.
I turn slowly, scanning the walls, the corners, the spaces between furniture.
Nothing. No full-length mirror leaning artfully against the wall.
No decorative mirror above the dresser. Not even one of those small vanity mirrors musicians usually have scattered around for last-minute checks before going on stage.
For a rockstar, that's... weird.
Hell, Jake has three full-length mirrors in his bedroom alone, positioned at different angles so he can check himself from every possible vantage point before a show.
Most performers I know are borderline obsessed with their appearance, constantly adjusting, primping, making sure every hair is in place.
But Rex? Nothing.
I move toward what I assume is the bathroom, pushing open the door to reveal gleaming black marble and chrome fixtures that look like they belong in a luxury hotel.
And there, finally, I find it—a mirror. But it's not hanging on the wall like a normal fucking person would have it.
It's inside a shallow medicine cabinet, the kind you have to open to see your reflection.
Like someone who can't stand to accidentally catch a glimpse of themselves.
Rex clearly has self-esteem issues that go way beyond the typical musician's insecurity.
The man who performs in front of thousands wearing elaborate masks, who commands a stage with predatory confidence, who blackmails people without flinching—that same man can't even have a mirror in his own bedroom.
I think about what he said in the hospital, his voice raw and broken.
Even Nash couldn't look at me.
Fuck.
I close the medicine cabinet with a soft click and return to the main room, trying to shake off the weight of that realization.
I can't afford to feel sympathy for Rex.
The knock on Rex's door makes me jump, heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. I'm halfway to grabbing my knife before I recognize Rafael's voice through the heavy wood.
"Bells? We ordered pizza. You hungry?"
My stomach growls in answer, loud enough I'm pretty sure he can hear it through the door. Shit. When was the last time I ate? Rafael made omelets for Phoenix and me this morning, but I didn't have much of an appetite then.
"Yeah," I call back, my hand already on the doorknob. "Give me a minute."
I do a quick check in the medicine cabinet mirror, the only fucking mirror in this entire room.
The collar's secure around my throat, hiding what needs to stay hidden.
Dark circles rim my eyes. I'm a few shades paler than usual, which means I might puke if I eat something heavy like pizza, but I'm hungry enough it's worth the risk.
I look like shit, but that's nothing new lately.
The living room smells like grease and hot cheese and marinara when I emerge, and maybe this is a mistake after all, but the three open pizza boxes spread across the coffee table are already calling my name.
"Holy shit," I mutter, taking in the spread. "Did you order enough to feed an army?"
"We didn't know how hungry you were," Rafael says, settling onto the couch. He sprawls out on his back, head resting on Phoenix's lap, long legs kicked out with his decidedly goth cowboy boots kicked up on the armrest.
Phoenix doesn't seem to mind being used as a human pillow. He's got a slice of pepperoni and ropey cheese halfway to his mouth, grinning at me like a kid who just got away with stealing cookies. "What's the point of being adults if we can't have a pizza party whenever the fuck we want?"
"Fair point," I admit, grabbing a slice with sausage. I take a bite and have to choke down a purr. Not a moan, thank god. My mom's one of those.
Fuck, I was starving.
"How's Rex's room treating you?" Rafael asks, and there's genuine curiosity in his voice, not judgment. "Find any skeletons in the closet?"
"Not yet," I say.
Emphasis on yet.
Phoenix snorts. "Check under the bed."
Rafael elbows him in the stomach. "Don't scare him."
"I'm not afraid of Rex," I say dryly.
"I am," Phoenix says with a stiff laugh.
We eat in silence for a moment, the only sounds the soft crunch of crust and the distant hum of the city outside. It's comfortable, weirdly so, considering I barely know these guys and they're my blackmailer's packmates.
"He's doing okay, by the way," Phoenix offers, using a napkin to get a spot of sauce off the table. I've noticed they've been keeping the place cleaner than usual with me around. I'm clearly not pack even if I'm part of the band. "Rex. He texted earlier. Said he'll be discharged next week."
"He told me that too," I hear myself say. "When I saw him."
Rafael's eyebrows shoot up. "What else did he say after he kicked me and Phoenix out?"
"Not much. Between the painkillers and the exhaustion, he was kind of a mess." I take another bite, using it as an excuse not to elaborate. The image of Rex struggling to drink water flashes through my mind, the self-loathing in his voice when he called himself pathetic and gripped the bandages.
I shouldn't care.
I really, really shouldn't fucking care.
"I'm..." I pause, choosing my words carefully. "I'm kind of worried about his mental state. He wasn't doing well. He really seems to hate himself."
Phoenix and Rafael exchange one of those loaded glances that speaks volumes without saying anything at all. The kind of look that says they've been thinking the same thing but haven't said it out loud yet.
"Yeah," Phoenix says finally, and there's so much weight in that single word it could sink ships. "Everything's going to shit."
Rafael shifts slightly, his head still on Phoenix's lap. Phoenix winces as the back of Raf's skull grinds his thigh. "Has been for a while, if we're being honest."
"Since Nash died?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
"Before that, even." Phoenix stares at his pizza intently like it's a cheesy crystal ball. "I guess we can talk about the elephant in the room now. Nash told me once that Rex is disfigured. From an accident when they were sixteen."