Chapter 5
SAWYER
The bus door hisses open, and I step out into the thick heat of the late morning.
The first venue of the tour looms ahead, all sharp steel and concrete, already vibrating with sound checks and chaos. It’s not even noon, and the air feels like a furnace. Heat radiates off the parking lot, cooking me from the soles of my boots to the top of my head.
I barely take a step before I feel him.
“Wait.”
His voice curls down my spine like smoke as I turn, heart skipping despite myself.
Jasper closes the distance between us in two long strides. The lanyard in his hand swings gently, catching the sunlight, the black laminate flashing ALL ACCESS across the front.
“Almost forgot your pass,” he says, but instead of handing it over, he steps in close. One hand slips the lanyard over my head, his fingers brushing the edge of my jaw as he lowers it. A spark jumps, sharp enough to make me forget how to breathe. He doesn’t move away.
He lingers there, eyes searching mine. “How’d you sleep?” The question is soft, uncharacteristically careful. “I kept checking my phone, waiting for you to need me again.” A crooked grin flickers, low and self-deprecating. “Guess I was hoping for a reason to come back.”
He watches the cord settle between my breasts, then lets his gaze drop. Then back to my face, like he wants to see if I’ll look away first.
I don’t.
Which is a mistake.
His fingers trail down the cord until they stop right where the fabric of my black shirt splits at the sides. Just enough to hint at the red lace beneath. His fingertips are warm against my skin, causing my body to want to shiver even though it’s blazing out here.
“Interesting choice of shirt,” he murmurs, voice low with something wicked. “Black, slashed sides…red lace teasing through. You trying to kill someone out here today, Little Sin?”
I don’t even flinch at the nickname—because God help me; I like it.
“It’s an outdoor venue,” I manage, stepping back just enough to think. “Eighty-nine degrees. And I’ll be running around working. I dress for survival.”
A corner of his mouth tilts up into a sinful god-complex smirk. “That’s funny,” he says, eyes dragging down again, “because I’m dying.”
I deny him the satisfaction of an answer. I turn on my heel, chasing air untouched by him. But every time he closes in, it’s like the earth tilts, and I lose my footing all over again.
***
I walk the perimeter of the venue, slipping behind crowd barriers and ducking under scaffolding as I map the space out in my head.
The stage is massive—built like a monster open-mouth screaming into the sky. Black steel ribs stretch up into the clouds, cables dangling like tendons, every surface vibrating with the promise of noise.
Banners for Hymns of the Broken hang like black flags on either side, edges snapping in the wind. Roadies scurry in and out, shouting over squeals of feedback. Someone’s tuning a guitar backstage, the sharp, bending notes slicing through the air.
I lift my camera.
Click.
Cables tangled like veins.
Click.
A drum kit gleaming in the sun, chrome hardware catching the light like polished teeth.
Click.
A group of fans is already lining up at the front rail, their eyeliner smudging under the heat, clutching signs and water bottles like survival gear.
For a few minutes, I forget about Blake. Forget Jasper and how badly my heart is still beating from the lanyard moment.
It’s just me, my lens, and the chaos that makes sense when it’s frozen in a frame.
The bass hums low beneath my boots as the first band gets ready to go on.
I lift my camera, framing the empty stage. The lighting tech calls out numbers, and a flash of warm orange floods the platform before it shifts to cool violet. It paints the floor like fire and ice.
I adjust my aperture, dial in my ISO, and take test shots, snapping one after another. No room for error.
Her Last Confessional is the headliner.
One of the biggest names here.
Fifteen bands. Two days. Three nights at this stop—two back-to-back shows, then a “rest day” that’s code for interviews, press photos, and pretending anyone actually sleeps.
And somehow, I’m here—camera in hand, working the tour of a lifetime.
I drop to one knee, angling the shot to catch the swirl of smoke machines curling off the stage when I feel it.
That slow, creeping burn of eyes across my skin.
“Careful.” Comes from the sinful voice behind me.
I blink once to ground myself, then I lower my camera and turn to look over my shoulder.
Jasper stands there in a black, sleeveless muscle tee that hangs loose over his frame, sliced low on the sides to expose his inked ribs.
Black jeans, ripped and worn, molded to his legs.
High-top converse, laces loose, scuffed from nights spent in chaos.
He’s sweat-slicked from soundcheck, or maybe just the heat, and the way the sun hits the black of his lip ring makes it flash like a blade.
One hand runs through his black hair, pushing it back, leaving it perfectly messy—like a sinner fixing his tie before confession. Composed, but dangerous.
And I have no doubt he could ruin me in the worst, or the best, way.
JASPER
She goes to stand, and her shirt shifts when she turns—exposing more skin. A teasing edge of red lace under the slashed sides of black fabric.
“You keep aiming that thing at everyone else, I might get jealous.” I say as I make my way over, every step measured. Gravel crunches under my shoes until I’m close enough to steal her shadow, close enough that the air between us changes.
“Hope you’re not wasting your best angles on them.”
She startles slightly but doesn’t show it. Points for composure.
“I’m not sure who ‘them’ is,” she says, voice clipped. “But I shoot what looks good.”
I smile, she’s feisty. I must have gotten to her a little earlier. “Guess that’s why your camera always ends up on me.”
She laughs, sarcastically. “Pretty sure you photobombed the one I got last night on the bus, plus it’s literally my job.”
I tilt my head, eyes narrowing just enough to unsettle her. “Or maybe I just wanted your attention.”
Her grip on the camera tightens and her mouth opens, as if a comeback is on the tip of her tongue, but nothing comes out.
“I have to be honest, I saw your file,” I say. “The ones you sent in for Darklight.”
Her eyes flicker—something unreadable flashing there. “Didn’t think the talent got to rifle through resumes.”
“I’m not just talent, sweetheart. But I handpicked you.”
“Why?” She looks shocked.
“You’re talented, Sawyer. But I also chose you because you don’t look at me like the rest of them do,” I say.
“I’m not just a rockstar to you. You see a normal person, even if I do make your heart beat faster when I’m near you.
” I say, trying to make her laugh, and it works.
“You look like you’re trying to figure out how much of me is real… and how much is about to ruin you.”
Her throat bobs with a swallow. “I look at a lot of people like that.”
“But none of them are me.”
SAWYER
The words hang between us like smoke, thick and suffocating. And unfortunately…not totally untrue.
I hate how my thoughts short-circuit the second he steps into my orbit. I hate how my pulse stumbles like it can’t wait to sell me out. And I hate that Jasper Reign speaks like his words are scripture, like the universe itself was built to shut up and listen.
I take a half-step back.
“You’re really full of yourself, huh?” I shoot back, letting my tone skate that dangerous edge between amused and annoyed. “Must be exhausting thinking you’re the center of the universe.” I make a pouty face, teasing him.
He grins as if he’s won something. “Baby, I’m not the center of the universe. I’m just the one pulling your focus.”
“Pulling my focus?” I echo, tilting my head. “You’re more like background noise with a god complex.”
He laughs, low and quiet—like I just confirmed something for him.
“You think I’m full of myself?” He steps in, just close enough to make the air between us thrum. “No, baby. I’m just full of you. And you haven’t even figured out how deep I plan to go. But by all means… keep pretending you’re not curious.”
He steps in like he’s about to say something else, but then someone calls his name from backstage, and the spell breaks.
Jasper’s eyes hold mine for a moment longer.
“Enjoy the show,” he says as he turns and walks off. As if he hadn’t just rearranged my entire internal system.
***
I lift the lens and scan the crowd beyond the metal rails. Faces already flushed with sun and anticipation. Security is weaving through the sea of bodies. Fans press closer to the stage, clutching phones and handmade signs like lifelines, waiting for the next explosion of sound.
The world through my lens is clearer.
Simpler. Safer.
Click.
A girl with neon green hair leaning on the barricade, screaming at no one yet.
Click.
The shimmer of a water bottle mid-arc as someone sprays the crowd.
Click.
A roadie is jogging across the stage, the tension in his shoulders frozen mid-motion.
I adjust my ISO, squinting against the brutal outdoor light. The heat is already sticking to my skin like a second skin, and the black tee I’m wearing clings tighter than I’d like; the open sides tease flashes of my red bra underneath. Whatever. It’s damn near ninety degrees.
I wipe the sweat from my brow and refocus.
Her Last Confessional goes on later today. Big set. Big crowd. Big pressure.
And I’m here to prove I can handle it.
Not Jasper and his hurricane gaze.
Not the stupid butterflies I pretend I don’t feel every time he steps within ten feet of me.
Not Blake and the twelve unread messages currently screaming from my phone.
Just me, the camera, and the music.
The sound tech cues the second band to start their set. The rumble of drums and the feedback from a mic hit like an electric pulse through the crowd, vibrating up through the soles of my boots and into my spine.
I steady the camera, let the beat anchor me, and start shooting.
Click.
The blur of drumsticks midair, a flash of motion caught against the blinding sun.
Click.
The bassist leans into the mic, veins sharp against his neck as he screams into the crowd.
Click.
The front row—sweaty, wild-eyed, screaming like this moment is the only one they’ll ever remember.
I don’t need to shoot the other bands, but I want to prove to Darklight that I can do this. Most importantly, I want to prove to myself who I am.
Sawyer fucking Morrigan.
Professional.
Focused.
Unshakeable.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.