Chapter 21
Ben’s fingers wouldn’t stop trembling.
He stared down at them—hands that could dice onions paper-thin, that could hold Sara with perfect control, that hadn’t shaken like this in six goddamn years—and willed them to be still.
They didn’t listen.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor.”
Adrian’s voice cut through the backstage chaos of the spring festival. Ben stopped pacing long enough to shoot his friend a murderous look before resuming his circuit around the cramped tent that served as the performers’ green room.
“Helpful. Thank you.”
“Just making an observation.” The werewolf lounged against a stack of equipment cases, arms crossed, watching him with entirely too much amusement. “You know, for someone who used to sell out stadiums, you’re acting like you’ve never seen a microphone before.”
“That was different.”
“Different how?”
He dragged a hand over his ears, pressing them flat against his skull.
The noise from outside filtered through the canvas walls—laughing children, carnival games, and the low thrum of anticipation from the crowd gathering in front of the main stage.
His stage. In approximately… he checked his watch… twelve minutes.
Eleven minutes and forty-three seconds.
“Different because I was a different person then,” he growled. “I was young and stupid and didn’t give a shit about anything except the next pleasure. The music, the crowds, the women—it was all just fuel for the fire.”
“And now?”
“Now I give too many shits. About everything.” He resumed pacing. “What if I can’t do it anymore? What if I get up there and forget every word? What if—”
“What if you’re incredible and everyone loves it and you remember why you started playing in the first place?”
He stopped. Turned. Stared at Adrian like he’d grown a second head.
“Did you just… say something sincere?”
“Don’t get used to it.” Adrian pushed off from the equipment cases, his expression shifting to something almost serious.
“Look, man. I’ve known you for six years.
I’ve watched you work yourself half to death, deny yourself every pleasure, and build walls so high even I couldn’t see over them.
And in the last few months, I’ve watched a sweet kindergarten teacher with killer brownies tear those walls down piece by piece. ”
“Your point?”
“My point is that you already did the hard part. You let someone in. You built a nest. You claimed a mate.” Adrian clapped him on the shoulder. “Playing a few songs for some townspeople? That’s nothing. That’s a victory lap.”
He wanted to argue. He wanted to explain that it wasn’t that simple, that the stage had teeth, that the spotlight could burn, and that he’d spent six years running from this exact moment for very good reasons.
But before he could form the words, the tent flap rustled and Sara slipped inside.
Everything else faded away.
She was wearing a soft blue dress that swirled around her knees, her hair pulled away from her neck so that his latest mating bite was clearly visible. Her cheeks were flushed from the spring evening warmth, her green eyes bright with excitement and just a touch of concern.
She smelled like vanilla and sugar and home.
“Hey.” Her voice was soft, just for him. “Adrian, could you give us a minute?”
“Already gone.” The werewolf slipped past her with a knowing grin, disappearing through the tent flap and leaving them alone.
He didn’t remember crossing the space between them. One moment he was standing by the equipment cases, the next he had her pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around her like she might disappear if he let go.
“I can’t do this,” he muttered into her hair.
“Yes, you can.”
“My hands won’t stop shaking.”
“That’s just adrenaline. It’ll pass.”
“What if it doesn’t? What if I get out there and completely freeze up? What if I embarrass myself in front of the entire town?” He pulled back enough to meet her eyes, letting her see the fear he’d been trying to hide. “What if I disappoint you?”
Her expression softened. She reached up, cupping his face in her hands—those warm, steady hands that had learned exactly how to touch him, exactly where he needed pressure and where he needed gentleness.
“Benjamin Holloway,” she said firmly. “You could forget every word, trip over your own feet, and set the stage on fire, and you still wouldn’t disappoint me. I’m not here because I expect you to be perfect. I’m here because I love watching you do something that makes you happy.”
His breath caught. “Sara…”
“You’ve been singing to me for weeks. On the porch, in the kitchen, in bed when you think I’m asleep.
” Her thumbs traced gentle circles on his cheeks.
“Every time, you come alive in a way that breaks my heart a little. Because I know you’ve been denying yourself this for years, and I know how much it costs you to hold that part of yourself back. ”
“It’s not safe. The way I was before—”
“You’re not who you were before. You’ve grown. You’ve changed. You’ve built something real here, something that matters.” She rose up on her toes, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Trust yourself. I do.”
For a long moment, he just looked at her. This woman who’d walked into his life with a plate of brownies and a smile, who’d refused to be intimidated by his grumpiness, who’d seen through every wall he’d built and loved what she found underneath.
She believed in him.
Maybe it was time he believed in himself.
“One set,” he said.
“One set.” She smiled, that brilliant smile that always made his heart do strange things. “And then you can come find me in the crowd and tell me all about how amazing it felt.”
“Or how terrible.”
“It won’t be terrible.” She kissed him again, longer this time. “Now go. You’re on in five minutes, and I need to find a good spot to watch my male rock this festival.”
My male.
The words settled into his chest, warm and sure and exactly right.
He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and walked towards the stage.
The roar hit him like a wave.
He had forgotten what it felt like—the surge of sound from a crowd, the almost physical pressure of hundreds of eyes turning towards him at once. For a moment he stood frozen at the edge of the stage, guitar in hand, every instinct screaming at him to run.
Then he saw Flora in the front row, wearing a black shirt that said “I KNEW HIM BEFORE HE WAS COOL” in glittery letters, startling a laugh out of him. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a fraction.
Okay. I can do this.
He stepped into the spotlight.
The festival crowd spread out before him—familiar faces mixed with strangers, humans and Others alike, all gathered in the town square with drinks in hand and anticipation in their eyes.
Paper lanterns swung from strings overhead, casting warm pools of colored light across the cobblestones.
The air was thick with the scent of funnel cakes and blooming flowers and that particular electricity that came with live music.
He settled the guitar strap across his shoulder and adjusted the microphone.
“Evening, Fairhaven Falls.”
His voice sounded hoarse, but the crowd cheered anyway. He caught a glimpse of Nina near the sound booth, giving him a thumbs up. Somewhere to his left, he could hear Posy’s distinctive whistle. Maisie waved frantically from her perch on her father’s shoulders.
“Some of you might know me as the grumpy bastard who runs the Moonlight Tavern.” A ripple of laughter.
“Some of you might know that I used to do this for a living, a long time ago. And some of you…” His eyes found Flora again.
“Are wearing incredibly embarrassing shirts that we’ll be discussing later. ”
“I regret nothing!” Flora shouted back.
More laughter. The crowd was warming up, settling in, their energy shifting from curiosity to anticipation.
His fingers found the strings.
“This first song is an old one,” he said quietly. “I haven’t played it in years, but it felt right for tonight.”
He struck the opening chord, and the music took over.
It was like sinking into a warm bath, like coming home after years of exile, like drawing breath after being underwater for far too long.
His fingers remembered patterns his conscious mind had forgotten.
His voice found notes he’d thought he’d lost. The guitar became an extension of his body, and the stage became his entire world.
The crowd disappeared. The nerves disappeared. Everything narrowed down to the vibration of the strings beneath his fingers and the words pouring out of his throat.
This is who I am, he thought distantly. This is who I’ve always been.
He’d forgotten what it felt like to lose himself in the music.
Not the destructive loss of his earlier years, the frantic chase for bigger highs and louder crowds, but something purer.
Something that had been there from the beginning, before the fame and the excess and the endless parade of empty encounters.
The first song ended, and the crowd erupted.
He blinked, suddenly aware of his surroundings again. The cheers washed over him like a benediction, and he felt his ears perk forward, the smile spreading across his face before he could stop it.
“Thank you.” His voice was rougher now, raw with emotion. “Thank you.”
He launched into the next song.
And the next.
And the next.
Time became meaningless. There was only the music and the crowd and the way they moved together, a living thing breathing in rhythm with his guitar.
He played songs he’d written years ago, songs he’d never recorded, songs that had only ever existed in the quiet hours on his porch.
He played until his fingers ached and his voice cracked and his whole body thrummed with an energy he’d almost forgotten existed.
When he finally struck the last chord, the silence that followed was deafening.
Then the cheers came—thunderous, overwhelming, shaking the very air around him.