Chapter 18 – REX
Chapter
Eighteen
REX
She's touching my shit.
I watch through the camera feed on my phone—the one Phoenix smuggled in with my other belongings, like my simple black mask, when the nurses weren't looking—as Bells picks up the mask that must have fallen from the wall display.
It's one of my favorites, actually. Blood red filigree with black leather backing, intricate enough that it took the craftsman three months to complete.
Her fingers trace the patterns with something that looks like reverence. Not the morbid curiosity I'd expect, knowing why I hide my face. Just... strange careful attention. Like she's trying to understand the artistry in it and appreciating it.
Then she hangs it back up, adjusting it until it sits perfectly aligned with the others.
The pain medication makes everything feel distant, wrapped in cotton, but that doesn't stop the spike of irritation that cuts through the pharmaceutical haze. I don't like that she touched that, even if it fell off the wall.
I gave her clear instructions, and what does she do?
Goes straight for the fucking masks.
She moves to stand in front of my wardrobe now, hand hovering over the handle. I can practically see the debate playing out in her head. To snoop or not to snoop. That's the eternal question when you're given access to someone's private space, isn't it?
Her hand drops.
She doesn't open it.
Huh.
Most people would've torn through everything the second they thought no one was watching.
Phoenix and Rafael included, not that they'd ever admit it.
But Bells just backs away from the wardrobe like it might bite her and settles cross-legged on my bed instead, pulling out her laptop.
The screen's glow illuminates her face in the dimly lit room.
I'm moving to turn off the feed when I hear her voice.
"I know you're watching me, Rex."
I freeze.
Most people never notice when they're being watched, too caught up in their own narratives to sense the external gaze. But Bells has instincts honed by something, some experience that taught her to be hyperaware of her surroundings.
Probably whatever the fuck had her freeze like that when Stephen cornered her against my recording studio.
Her gaze flicks to the camera in the upper corner of the room. I don't hide it. There's no reason to. And I wouldn't watch her from a hidden camera. In the soft glow from her laptop, she makes eye contact with me through my phone screen.
Is that a smirk?
She sets her laptop aside with deliberate slowness, never breaking eye contact with the camera.
Then her hands go to the hem of the oversized white hoodie she's wearing—one with fucking rabbit ears on the hood, of all things, like she's playing with the prey aesthetic—and starts pulling it up slowly, revealing the pale skin of her stomach, the edge of her binder, her…
Oh, fuck no.
My thumb hits the power button before my brain fully processes what I'm doing. The feed goes black, leaving me staring at my own bandaged reflection in the darkened phone screen.
My cock twitches against the hospital sheets and I want to punch something. Preferably myself.
What the fuck was she thinking? Stripping in my room, knowing I'm watching, like this is some kind of game.
Except... that's exactly what it is, isn't it?
A game.
And she just won this round.
She knew I was watching. Knew I have cameras. And instead of being intimidated, she used it against me. Wearing that fucking rabbit hoodie like she's mocking the entire situation. Saying with actions and not words: I see your intimidation tactics and raise you weaponized cuteness, asshole.
The worst part?
She knew I would look away.
Knew that beneath all my threats and aggression, I wouldn't actually watch her undress without consent. That there's a line I won't cross, even with someone I'm actively blackmailing. Another boundary found. Another limit exposed.
The little manipulative shit.
I should be furious. Should be planning exactly how to punish her for this blatant disrespect, this challenge to my authority. Should be reminding myself that she's nothing but a tool for revenge, a means to an end.
Instead, I'm lying here in a hospital bed with a half-hard cock and the phantom image of her in that rabbit hoodie burned into my retinas. Those fierce honey eyes staring straight through the camera at me. Like she could see me watching. Like she knew exactly what effect she'd have.
My irritation shifts to something darker, heavier. Something I haven't let myself feel in years.
Want.
I've never wanted anyone. Ever. Because nobody wants me—the monster under the mask. They want Rex Steele, the mysterious rock star. The persona. The illusion. And I learned a long time ago not to want what I can't have.
But my cock doesn't seem to have gotten that memo.
Fuck it.
My hand slides under the thin hospital blanket and the first brush of my fingers against my hardened cock makes me hiss through clenched teeth.
I close my eyes, and she's there immediately. Not just the glimpse from the camera—the full fantasy my fucked-up brain has been building since she walked into my life.
She's in my bed, her hoodie discarded on the floor. Her white hair spreads across my black sheets like spilled moonlight. Those honey-gold eyes blaze up at me with that familiar defiance, but there's heat there too. Desire she can't hide behind her usual armor.
I grab her wrists, pin them above her head with one hand.
She struggles playfully against my grip and bites at my wrist, but her body arches toward mine, her hips grinding against me.
My other hand wraps around her throat, right over that leather collar she never removes, feeling her pulse race beneath my fingers.
My lips crush hers. She gets a hand free and her nails rake my shoulders and her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer even as she bites my lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
My hand moves faster, gripping harder as the fantasy deepens.
I flip her over, press her face into the mattress as I bite that leather collar from behind, pinning her in place, rutting into her, knotting her.
I tangle my hand in her bone-white hair, yank her head back so I can see her face in profile—mouth open in a blissed-out gasp, those honey eyes rolled back in pleasure, pupils blown wide with…
With horror.
Who the fuck would want this?
The thought slithers through my arousal like ice water.
My hand stutters to a stop. The image of her beneath me warps, twists. Now she's pressing against the tunnel wall, trying to get away from the thing that can't even eat and drink in front of people without revolting them.
My cock goes soft in my hand.
Shit.
I snarl and grip harder, trying to force it back, trying to reclaim that heat. But the more I try, the more pathetic the attempt becomes.
The monitor beside me starts beeping faster, probably alerting some nurse that the patient in room 314 is having an "episode." I force myself to give up and focus on my breathing until my heartrate slows to a normal rate despite the frustration burning through my veins.
I haven't felt this way about anyone. Ever. Because I made sure I never would. Built walls so high and thick that nothing could get through. Turned myself into someone so vicious and cold that no one would ever try.
And then she shows up with her fierceness and her raw bravery and her refusal to be intimidated, and suddenly all those walls might as well be tissue paper.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
And why the fuck does it have to be Bells?