Chapter 17 – BELLS #2
Rafael's eyes widen slightly, and I catch the surprise flickering across his features. But underneath that, there's something else. Not complete shock. More like confirmation of something he'd suspected but never had confirmed.
"You knew?" Rafael asks Phoenix.
"Nash was drunk. Devastated. Said it was his fault, that he was driving." Phoenix's voice goes quiet, distant. "He never gave me details, just... enough. Enough to understand why Rex is the way he is."
I think about the glimpse I got in the tunnel. The white and pink scar tissue, the way Rex's hand flew up to cover his face, the animal sound of pure terror that ripped from his throat.
"Rex isn't a bad person," Phoenix continues, and there's conviction in his voice that surprises me. "He just sees himself as a monster and acts the part. It's safer for him that way, I think."
The words hit too close to home. Different circumstances, different mask, but the same fucking logic. Better to control the narrative than let people discover the truth and use it against you.
"Men like Stephen are the real monsters," Rafael says, and there's an edge to his voice that makes me look up. His dark eyes are serious, the usual playfulness gone. "The ones who smile and shake hands and fuck people over while pretending to care."
I think about Stephen's breath on my neck, his hand sliding up my side. But underneath that, older memories surface like corpses in water. An alpha, one I never saw clearly because he wore a mask.
One who called me his little songbird.
"They never face consequences," I hear myself say, voice flat. "Stephen's still at the hospital, right? There's a police investigation pending?"
Phoenix nods. "Yeah. But..."
"But nothing will happen," I finish, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. "They never do shit about it. Stephen's too important, too connected. He'll spin some story, maybe claim Rex attacked him unprovoked. And the cops will eat it up because that's what they do."
Rafael's jaw tightens. "You sound like you've been through this before."
I have. When my stalker attacked me, when his teeth sank into my throat and left an incomplete mark, when my parents and label decided my trauma was less important than my image. When they buried the whole thing under NDAs and hush money and official statements about exhaustion.
But I can't say that. Can't explain why I know exactly how this plays out.
"Just seen enough to know how the world works," I mutter instead, grabbing another slice even though I'm not hungry anymore. Need something to do with my hands that isn't wrapping them around my own throat.
Phoenix reaches over and grips my shoulder, the gesture surprisingly gentle for someone his size. "Hey. Rex put Stephen in the hospital. I don't think he'll be sniffing around again anytime soon."
"Yeah," Rafael agrees, a dark smile crossing his face. "And if Stephen's smart, he'll stay the fuck away from all of us. Because next time, Rex might not stop at his face."
The casual way they talk about violence doesn't disturb me one bit. It's weirdly comforting. Like maybe I'm not alone in this fucked-up world where real monsters wear suits and smiles.
The intercom buzzes, sharp and jarring in the comfortable atmosphere.
Rafael groans, not moving from his position with his arm draped over his eyes to block out the sun from the huge windows. "That'd better not be David from downstairs being a nosy asshole about Rex being gone."
"It's probably dessert," Phoenix says, already pulling out his phone to check the delivery app. "It was supposed to come at the same time as the pizza, but I guess it took too long."
Rafael lifts his arm just enough to stare at Phoenix with one eye. "You ordered dessert? It's barely past noon."
"What's the point of being a fucking rockstar if you can't have dessert when you want?" Phoenix shoots back with a laugh, standing up with enough force that Rafael's head drops to the couch cushion with a soft thump.
I get the feeling they use this logic a lot. But instead of hard drugs and groupies, at least it's just junk food.
"Ow. Dick." Rafael sits up, rubbing his head with exaggerated pain. "You could've warned me."
"You could've not been using me as a pillow."
"You're comfortable. Like a big teddy bear."
Phoenix rolls his eyes half-heartedly and hits the button on the intercom. "Yeah?"
The response is muffled, but I catch something about a delivery. Phoenix buzzes them up without hesitation, still scrolling through his phone with a furrowed brow and pushing his mane of blond hair back from his face.
"Weird," he mutters. "The app's not updating the driver's location. Maybe it glitched."
Rafael stretches his arms and legs until his joints and spine pop. "Technology. Can't live with it, can't go back to carrier pigeons."
"Pigeons don't deliver food," Phoenix says, but he's grinning.
"Not with that attitude."
The knock on the door interrupts their playful bickering. Phoenix opens it, already reaching for his wallet, then freezes.
"I didn't order flowers," he says slowly.
My blood turns to ice water.
The delivery guy—young, bored-looking—holds out a bouquet. Not just any bouquet. Roses. Deep red with black edges, the petals so dark they look like they've been dipped in ink.
Exactly like the ones my stalker used to send.
"For Bells," the delivery guy says, checking his phone. "This the right address?"
Nobody moves. Nobody breathes.
Phoenix takes the bouquet automatically, tipping the guy and closing the door like he's on autopilot. He turns to look at me, those kind blue eyes full of questions I can't answer.
"Bells?" Rafael's voice is careful, cautious. "Who sent you flowers?"
The card.
There's always a fucking card.
My hands shake as I reach for it, plucking the small envelope from between the stems. The handwriting on the front is elegant, flowing. Familiar in a way that makes my skin crawl.
I open it.
You can't run from what's yours, little songbird. You'll always be my sun. I'll make the universe revolve around you again.
—B
The card slips from my fingers, fluttering to the floor like a dying bird.
Bryan.
Bryan who disappeared after the attack. Bryan who the police never identified beyond being an alpha. Bryan who I thought—hoped—had moved on, found some other victim to obsess over.
But he's been watching.
All this time, he's been watching.
Waiting.
The viral videos. The band switch. Vespyr trending on every social media platform because Rex Steele personally recruited their new singer. The headlines speculating about Bells's meteoric rise.
I've been so fucking visible.
"Bells?" Phoenix's voice sounds like it's coming from underwater. "You okay?"
Am I okay? Am I fucking okay?
I've spent years in therapy learning to manage my paranoia.
Years of exercises to rewire my brain to free me from seeing my stalker around every corner, behind every door, in every shadow.
I'd finally gotten to a place where I could walk down a street without checking over my shoulder every five seconds.
Without suspecting literally every alpha around me.
Fuck, it's why I hired a beta I can't stand to be my manager when there were a hundred alphas even more qualified vying for the job.
And now my stalker is back.
Or maybe he never left.
My therapist's voice echoes in my head, calm and measured. Setbacks are normal. Progress isn't linear. You have tools now. Use them.
But the tools feel useless when I'm staring at roses that smell like my worst nightmare.
"I'm fine," I hear myself say, and it sounds hollow even to my own ears. "It's just from family."
Rafael's staring at the roses, his brow furrowed in confusion. "I thought you said the other day no one knows you're here—"
I shove the roses into the kitchen trash can before I start screaming, the petals and thorny stems crushing against takeout boxes and coffee grounds. I slam the lid down harder than necessary, the metallic clang echoing through the apartment.
"Bells," Phoenix starts, but I'm already moving.
"I'm tired," I mutter, heading back toward Rex's room. "Think I'm gonna crash."
I don't wait for a response. Don't let them see the way my hands are shaking or the tears threatening to spill over. I just get behind Rex's door and lock it, sliding down to sit with my back pressed against the wood.
Rex's room doesn't feel like the fortress it was an hour ago. This is supposed to be safe. This is supposed to be the most secure room in the penthouse, even.
But all I can think about is Bryan. About how locks and security didn't stop him then, and they won't stop him now if he's decided it's time to finish what he started.
My hand goes to my collar automatically, fingers tracing the leather that hides the crescent-shaped scar. The incomplete mark that fucks with my body every time my hormones fluctuate. The permanent reminder that someone tried to claim me, to own me.
And I couldn't stop him.