Rescuing Phoenix (Wings of Mercy Omegaverse #1)

1

Kage

The VIP room was a haze of cigarette smoke, spilled liquor, and bodies pressed too close together.

Bad decisions were just waiting to happen.

It was the kind of scene that felt like it was already slipping out of control, but we were long past caring about control.

Zephyr was off in a corner, sprawled out on a couch with two girls draped over him, his hands wandering beneath their barely there clothes.

His dark hair was artfully tousled, falling into his blue eyes in a way that seemed effortlessly seductive, though I knew it was anything but accidental.

His leather jacket was slung over his shoulders, and that cocky, half-buttoned shirt showed off just enough to make people stare.

A look of pure satisfaction was plastered across his face, like he was exactly where he wanted to be—lost in the haze of pussy.

The dude couldn’t keep it together for five minutes before chasing after whatever piece of ass caught his eye, especially if it meant getting lost in the back rooms of some filthy club.

“Kage,”

he slurred, his voice thick with alcohol and something more primal. “You gotta check this one out.”

He nodded toward the blonde who was practically sitting on his lap, her hands already exploring under his shirt.

I gave him a lazy shrug and took another drag from my cigarette, not interested in playing along with his game.

I shifted my gaze around the room, deliberately avoiding him.

My eyes landed on Parker, my other packmate, who looked like he was trapped in his own private hell.

Parker was built like a linebacker—broad shoulders, muscular arms that stretched the fabric of his plain black tee, and an overall presence that could fill a room without him even trying.

His brown hair was cut short, always slightly disheveled, and his sharp jawline was partially obscured by the shadow of a scruffy beard he never quite managed to keep in check.

But tonight, he looked wrecked.

He’d been at the bar since we arrived, downing shots like they were water.

At this point, he was barely upright, leaning heavily against the counter as the bartender poured him yet another drink.

His usually piercing blue eyes were glazed over, unfocused, and his expression was vacant.

I’d seen it too many times before—this was Parker’s M.O. Drink until you can’t feel anything, then drink some more.

“Hey, Parker, you good?”

I asked, though I already knew the answer.

He grunted in response, eyes half-closed as he raised his glass in a mock toast.

“Better than good, man.

I’m fucking fantastic.”

I snorted.

“Yeah, you look fantastic, alright.”

Not that it mattered.

He’d been drinking himself into oblivion for months now.

Last week, I found him passed out in the alley behind the venue.

He used alcohol as an escape, but he wasn’t dependent on it. He enjoyed the thrill it brought, the numbing of his thoughts, but he still managed to walk the line without losing himself entirely.

But who was I to judge? I cut another line of blow and snorted it off the table.

The buzz in my veins was already thick, but I needed more—needed to feel that rush that pulled me away from everything else.

Away from the chaos of the band, the pressure, the constant goddamn noise.

I scanned the room, looking for another hit, something stronger.

The guy I usually bought from was lingering near the back, already dealing to some groupies who couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

I made a mental note to track him down later.

Zephyr let out a loud, drunken laugh from across the small room, pulling me out of my thoughts.

He was practically devouring the blonde now, his hands all over her.

It was gross, but not surprising.

Zephyr thrived on this shit—feeding his ego with every woman he touched, every broken boundary. It was like he needed to prove something to himself, like the more he could consume, the less empty he’d feel. It was pathetic, but I couldn’t say I didn’t get it.

Parker stumbled away from the private bar, a new bottle of something clear in his hand.

He caught my eye and raised it like he was toasting me, a crooked grin splitting his face.

I rolled my eyes, watching as he swayed on his feet, barely able to keep his balance.

“You’re gonna puke before the night’s out, man,”

I called over the music, but Parker just laughed, tipping the bottle to his lips. He was beyond saving for the night. We all were.

Hours passed and some girl sidled up to me, pressing her chest against my arm.

I brushed her off without a second glance.

I wasn’t in the mood for company tonight—not that kind, anyway.

My mind was already spinning, thinking about the next hit, the next escape. The drugs were starting to wear off, and that creeping itch was already spreading under my skin.

I glanced at Zephyr, now tangled up with the blonde in a way that would probably get us banned from whatever venue this was, and then over to Parker, who was slumped against a wall, his bottle tipped dangerously low.

This was our life now—one endless party, one more night of trying to fill the emptiness with drugs, alcohol, and strangers who didn’t mean a damn thing.

And as much as I hated it, I never stopped.

None of us did.

I’d like to say we were all just running from something, trying to escape whatever demons were snapping at our heels.

But that would be a lie. The truth was, once we got on this train, we just never bothered to jump off.

I stood up, feeling the need to move.

My limbs felt loose, and I knew I was already riding that high.

The good one.

The one where nothing could touch you.

“Kage.”

Someone called my name.

I didn’t bother turning around.

There were too many people here, too many faces I wouldn’t remember in the morning. They were all here for the band, for the fame, for the drugs. That’s all these parties were.

I weaved through the crowd, making my way toward the balcony.

The air outside was cooler, a welcome break from the sweat and stench of too many bodies crammed into one place.

I leaned over the railing, lighting up another cigarette and inhaling deeply.

I could hear Parker vomiting somewhere in the background.

I flicked my cigarette over the edge, watching the ash drift down into the darkness.

“Parker’s done,”

Zephyr said, appearing beside me. His shirt was unbuttoned, lipstick smeared across his neck. “You think he’ll make it to tomorrow?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Barely made it through tonight. What about you? Done chasing tail?”

He shrugged, grinning. “There’s always more to chase. You know how it is.”

I did know. It was always the same. Night after night, show after show.

Zephyr clapped me on the shoulder. “Let’s get back inside. Can’t leave Parker to choke on his own puke.”

I snorted, following him back into the madness.

◆◆◆

I woke up feeling like absolute shit.

My head was pounding, and my mouth tasted like I’d licked the bottom of an ashtray.

Not that it was unusual—I’d long since accepted that mornings were just a different kind of nightmare when you spent your nights neck-deep in bad decisions.

I groaned and rolled out of bed, squinting against the light pouring in through the narrow windows of the tour bus.

The world tilted for a second, and I had to grip the edge of the bunk to keep from face-planting.

My stomach twisted, reminding me I was still riding the tail end of last night’s bender.

Dragging my ass toward the front of the bus, I found our manager Pete sitting at the small table, tapping away at his laptop.

He glanced up when I stumbled in, eyes narrowing in that way that told me he was already tired of my shit, even though it was barely ten in the morning.

“Mornin’, sunshine,”

Pete said dryly, raising an eyebrow. “Sleep well?”

I snorted, running a hand through my hair. “Like a baby, man.”

I opened the mini-fridge, grabbed a beer, and cracked it open without a second thought. Breakfast of champions. The cold fizz hit the back of my throat. For a second, it almost made me feel human again.

Pete sighed heavily. He did that a lot lately. “You sure know how to live, Kage. Another good night under your belt, huh?”

“You know it,”

I said again, throwing back a long gulp of the beer.

Pete didn’t bother hiding his disappointment this time. He closed his laptop and leaned back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest. “You made headlines again. Congratulations.”

I paused mid-drink, the buzz in my head flickering. “What now?”

I grumbled, leaning against the counter.

He reached for his phone, sliding it across the table to me.

I picked it up and squinted at the screen, focusing on the blurry photo.

It was Zephyr’s bare ass.

Bent over a table while some blonde chick clung to him for dear life.

The image was pixelated just enough to keep it from being outright porn, but the damage was already done. The headline was something about Purely Onyx’s “rock-bottom debauchery,” and I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Jesus,”

I muttered, tossing the phone back at him. “Not the worst thing we’ve done.”

“Not the worst,”

he agreed, rubbing a hand over his face. “But the label’s pissed. Every outlet is running that story, and now they want to send in a PR rep to ‘fix’ things.”

I scoffed. The idea of some suit from a PR firm trying to wrangle us into good behavior already made me want to rebel harder. “Let them send one. We’ll chew them up and spit them out like we always do. They’ll be begging to go home in no time.”

Pete didn’t smile. He just shook his head slowly. “Kage, this shit’s getting old. Something’s gotta give, man.”

I shrugged, taking another swig from the beer and ignoring the knot forming in my chest. Pete had been with us from the start, and I knew he cared more than most about keeping us on track, but he didn’t get it. None of them did. This was just a part of our world.

“Whatever, man,”

I muttered, pushing off the counter. “We’ve handled worse. We’ll deal with it.”

“Kage—”

Pete started, but I was already walking away, heading toward the tiny bathroom at the back of the bus.

Normally, a manager would bring something like this up with the pack lead, but even though Zeph was officially the pack Alpha, he had a tendency to give less of a shit about matters like this.

If Pete wanted actual help, he knew better than to take it to Zeph.

The tile felt cold under my feet as I stepped inside, tossing my beer into the sink and pulling off my shirt.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—bloodshot eyes, dark circles, the fading bruise on my jaw from a scuffle I didn’t even remember starting.

The guy staring back at me looked rough.

But that was how I liked it. Rough edges, no soft spots for anyone to find.

Turning on the shower, I let the water scald my skin, hoping it would burn away the hangover and whatever lingering thoughts Pete had planted in my head.

I didn’t need his judgment.

I didn’t need anyone’s judgment. We were Purely Onyx, and this was what we did. Party hard, play harder, and fuck everything else.