Chapter 21 – BELLS #3
I jump back so hard I crash into Rex's chest. He catches my shoulders automatically, steadying me with a low chuckle like terrorizing me with a fucking surprise tiger is the funniest shit that's happened all week.
"That's just Cheeto," Jamie says, laughing at my reaction. "He's blind. Total sweetheart. Been with us for eight years now."
"You have a tiger," I croak stupidly. "In your tower."
"A rescue tiger," Jamie clarifies, as if that makes this perfectly normal, moving to scratch behind Cheeto's thick ears.
The massive cat doesn't move, but he makes a rumbling chuffing noise that vibrates in my bones like an engine rolling down an avalanche.
"He was abused in a roadside zoo. Basically a freak show for animals.
When the state shut the zoo down, he had nowhere to go, so we took him in. "
"How?" I splutter. "I mean, that's… sweet, but how?"
Jamie grins at me. "I was a zoo vet before becoming a maskmaker. He has an enclosure he can go to whenever he wants, but he'd rather be in here with us."
"And who is us?" I ask warily.
As if the universe heard my question, a beaded curtain rattles like bones over a shadowed doorway I hadn't noticed before. Boots thump against the worn wooden floor as a figure emerges.
He's fucking tall. Too tall for the doorframe, and he ducks his head as he slips into the room.
A lean, muscular alpha with tawny skin that seems to glow in the firelight through the undone laces of his white tunic, long dark auburn hair cascading over broad shoulders, and a brown feather earring dangling from his right ear.
And a golden skull for a face.
My hand flies to my pocket, fingers wrapping around my knife's bone handle on pure instinct. I must make some kind of sound or a face because the alpha's expression shutters immediately.
Wait.
My brain finally catches up to my panic.
It's not a skull. It's a mask. Gold and skeletal with filigree designs lovingly etched into the bones and teeth, covering the alpha's entire lower face from cheekbones to jaw, leaving only the aquiline bridge of his nose and those vivid green eyes visible.
Pink scar tissue branches up his cheekbones from beneath the edge of the mask.
The alpha's green eyes flick to the floor and I realize with a sinking feeling that my reaction—jumping back like he's about to eat me alive—probably isn't something he's unused to.
Shit.
"Oh!" Jamie bounds over, beaming from ear to ear. "This is Orion, my mate. Orion, this is Bells. He's the new singer for Vespyr.”
"Hi," I manage, practically choking on the word. Guilt crawls up my throat like bile. I force myself to meet those green eyes. "Sorry. I have an alpha phobia."
The admission hangs in the air for a beat.
Orion's eyes soften, and he gives a light, soft chuckle.
"Ah. I apologize. It's a pleasure to meet you, Bells," he says, his accented voice—Eastern European, maybe—much gentler than I expected from an alpha his size.
It's slightly muffled by the skeletal mask.
He steps forward slowly, telegraphing his movements, and reaches for my hand.
I let him take it, watching in stunned silence as he brings my knuckles to the cold golden teeth of his mask in a courtly gesture. It suits him, considering he looks like a fae prince.
"Forgive me for startling you," he continues, releasing my hand and stepping back to give me space. "Though I must admit, 'ghost' is new. I think I prefer it. Usually, it's just 'monster' or 'demon.'"
Rex shifts uncomfortably from across the room where he's planted himself by a window, leaning against a wooden pillar with his arms folded over his chest. It clicks immediately in my mind that Rex and Orion are both badly scarred.
Is that how Rex knows Jamie? Is this where the band gets their masks?
It makes sense why he'd trust Jamie to craft them if Jamie's mate is scarred, too.
But why did he bring me along?
There's no way he's having one made for me. And if he is, he's fucking with me. I don't know how yet, but I'll find out. And I'll get him back in spades. He has no idea what he's getting himself into if he kicks off some kind of stupid prank war with me.
Despite the embarrassment still prickling along my skin, I snort. "All I saw from the outside of the tower was a gold skull in the window. If I'd seen the boots, I would've known better. They're killer."
"Aren't they?" Jamie chimes in, bouncing on his toes. "They're vintage. Authentic cowboy boots from this amazing shop in Albuquerque."
Orion and Jamie are complete opposites in every way. Jamie's bouncy, sunny energy versus Orion's quiet, majestic presence. Jamie's warm brown eyes and softness versus Orion's sharp angles and piercing green gaze.
And it works perfectly.
"Your mate has excellent taste," I tell Orion, and his eyes crinkle at the corners.
"He does," Orion agrees, his gaze sliding to Jamie with obvious affection as he leans against a workbench. "In many things."
Jamie actually giggles, flushing pink. "Anyway," he says, clapping his hands together to accentuate the subject change. "Rex mentioned you need a mask?"
Knew it.
"That's news to me," I say dryly.
Jamie blinks. "Wait, Rex didn't tell you why he brought you here?"
"Nope. Not a word."
Jamie shoots Rex a look of his own, but Rex is too busy studying the shadowboxes on the far wall to pay any attention to the murder looks he's receiving from the otherwise unassuming omega.
"Rex is an alphahole," Jamie says loud enough for Rex to hear.
Rex doesn't even blink.
Orion pushes off from the workbench and moves closer, those green eyes studying my face with an intensity that somehow doesn't put me on edge.
He's not looking at me the way I've been used to alphas looking at me for nearly my entire life.
He's looking at me like I'm a canvas, something to be understood and appreciated.
"You have good bone structure," Orion says thoughtfully. "Sharp. Elegant. A mask would need to complement your features. We shouldn't hide them."
His voice softens on those last words. This is an alpha who knows what it's like to hide, to build armor between yourself and a world that won't accept what's underneath.
Like Rex.
And like me.
Orion gestures for me to follow him to a workbench that's less cluttered than the others, and I do, hyperaware of Rex's single visible eye tracking my movement from across the room.
Jamie bounces along beside me, already chattering about leather types and metal fittings like we're best friends who've known each other for years instead of strangers who met five minutes ago.
"We'll start with measurements," Jamie explains, pulling out what looks like a jeweler's measuring tape. "Then I'll do a cast of your face. Don't worry, it's not uncomfortable. Just a little weird."
"Define 'weird,'" I say warily.
"Like having your face hugged by cold pudding," Orion offers helpfully.
"That's... not exactly as comforting as you think it is."
Jamie laughs, and I catch myself smiling back at him. He's so genuinely cheerful it's impossible not to get pulled into his orbit.
"Tilt your head up for me?" Jamie asks, already moving closer with the tape.
I do, and he starts measuring. Forehead width. Distance between my eyes. Nose bridge to jaw. He calls out numbers to Orion, who writes them down in a leather-bound notebook with a fucking quill pen.
"You have such delicate features," Jamie says conversationally, running the tape along my jawline. "Feminine, almost. Beautiful."
My stomach drops, but I keep my expression neutral. "Yeah?" I croak.
"Yeah," Jamie continues, oblivious to the way my pulse just kicked into overdrive. "Your bone structure is very refined.”
He moves around to measure the back of my head, and I force myself to breathe normally. Just because he said "feminine" doesn't mean he knows. Plenty of guys have delicate features. It's fine. Everything's fine.
Except my hands are shaking slightly, and I have to shove them in my hoodie pocket to hide it.
"Stay still," Jamie instructs gently, positioning my head. "This part's a little uncomfortable, but it'll be quick."
He mixes what looks like dental alginate in a bowl, the stuff turning from powder to thick paste under his practiced hands. The smell is vaguely minty and chemical, making my nose wrinkle.
"Breathe through your nose," Orion advises from where he's setting up some kind of stand. "And try not to sneeze."
"Great advice. Now I definitely want to sneeze."
Jamie laughs, that bright sound filling the cavernous space. "Close your eyes and think about something pleasant."
I close my eyes, but nothing pleasant comes to mind. Just the weight of my binder digging into my ribs, the prosthetic shifting uncomfortably in my jeans, the constant awareness that I'm one wrong word away from everything falling apart.
The cold alginate touches my face and I flinch.
"Sorry!" Jamie says. "I should've warned you it's cold. Stay as still as you can."
He spreads the paste methodically, covering my forehead, nose, cheeks, jaw. It's exactly like being hugged by cold pudding, just like Orion said. The sensation is deeply weird—not painful, just profoundly uncomfortable. Like my face is being slowly encased in cement.
"Doing okay?" Jamie asks.
I give a thumbs up because my mouth is covered and I can't actually speak.
Time stretches. My face starts to itch where the alginate is hardening, and I have to actively fight the urge to claw it off. The weight of it presses down, making me hyperaware of every contour of my face. Every imperfection.
Finally, Jamie says, "Alright, on three, I'm going to remove it. One, two—"
He pulls the cast off on two, the bastard, and I gasp as cool air hits my face again.
"Sorry," Jamie says, not sounding sorry at all. "It's easier if you don't tense up."
"Evil," I mutter, wiping residue from my skin with the towel he hands me.