Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Sweet-fucking-Fates, this is not happening.
I did not just come in my pants.
While I was performing on stage.
Bea claps from the wings as we walk off stage, waving to the fans. I can’t focus on anything but the Fatesdamned mess coating my thigh.
What happened out there? I love music, and, sure, it sometimes turns me on when I’m performing, but I’ve never actually came. The dull pulse of arousal I normally feel was amplified a hundredfold.
Staring at my face in the mirror, I sigh and push away from the sink. There’s no use in questioning it. Why would crazed arousal be any different from the joyous highs or depressive lows my body fluctuates through?
I should probably see a doctor and find out what’s wrong with my brain chemistry that makes my emotions feel so out of control and overwhelming, but trying to explain it to someone else is exhausting.
Sweat still trickles down my neck, so I grab a bottle of water from the mini fridge and collapse on an empty chair, pressing the cold against my head to steal some of the heat. A shower and a nap are calling my name as soon as we’re able to get out of here.
My inner Alpha bristles at the thought of leaving when she is here. Skye Pierce.
Eight years ago, I was in a different band.
My first band. Hollow Anchors was a project she and I started together.
Her whimsical, sultry voice paired well with my alto.
We quickly grew a small following and landed a contract.
Everything changed slowly—shows in neighboring cities, recording real albums, selling merch.
Skye and I were over the moon at that small taste of success.
It helped us realize we were meant to do this forever. To stand on the stage and perform for crowds with a band behind us.
A year into our journey, we presented. Things got messy for a bit while we worked to balance our mandatory academy attendance and our budding music careers, but we made it work.
We were determined to live on that stage together forever.
Until we weren’t.
Until I wasn’t.
For the longest time, I thought Skye was it for me.
My perfect match.
Fate had other ideas.
At twenty-one, everyone has a chance to gain a Fated connection.
A path that leads them to their true mates.
When Skye and I never manifested one, we tried everything we could think of.
Writing on our skin. Taking sleeping pills to put us into a deep sleep so we could try to enter each other’s dreams. We even hurt ourselves to check if we had a shared pain connection.
Our attempts led nowhere, and we soon had to face the reality that we weren’t meant to be together. At least not by Fate’s standards.
Around that time, my music profile changed. Metal called to me, while Skye’s soulful sound grew whimsier by the day. As we sang together, my chest ached with the realization that we weren’t just incompatible in Fate’s eyes, but in music.
Deciding to go our separate ways is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I lost a part of myself that day. Something that I don’t think I’ll ever get back.
Skye leaped to stardom and never looked back. Winning awards, selling out stadiums, releasing platinum records—she’s living the life she always dreamed of.
And she isn’t doing it alone. She has a pack, having bonded to the members of Shattered Horizons three years ago.
I’m happy for her. I am. But being happy for her doesn’t make it hurt any less to know she’s moved on without me.
Especially when I’m stuck here.
Lost without the person who could mend my broken pieces.
Now she’s here. In the same Fatesdamned venue.
Would I be a coward if I ran before I could bump into her? My instincts say yes, but I stopped following them years ago. If I had, I would have hunted Skye down and begged her to take me back as soon as I left.
The green room door opens and Bea steps in, looking badass in her pink pantsuit and towering heels. “Whatever fire was lit under your asses tonight, let’s make sure it never goes out. I’m so fucking proud, I could cry.”
In the seven months since we met, Bea has pushed us hard. Working us to the bone and demanding more. While it felt like hell at points, she’s shaped us into something our new fans are eating up.
Before she can fill us in on the plans for the rest of the show, someone knocks on the door. Every nerve ending in my body flares, almost painfully, and I know who it is. The breath knocks from my lungs as Bea glances at me, silently asking if I want her here.
Nodding is a mindless action because my mind stopped functioning the moment I caught her incredible scent in the air. Sweet, floral, and spicy. Soft but also smoky, like her voice when she sings. My spent cock instantly hardens in my jeans, raging with a need I’ve spent years denying.
A lump blocks my throat, and my face goes blank as she steps into the room, hiding the fear and longing plaguing me.
Silvery-white hair hangs to her shoulders, a few shades lighter than when we performed together.
She’s still tiny, barely reaching Bea’s shoulder as they stand next to each other.
A floral peach dress hugs her chest, cascading around her, creating the illusion that she’s a princess in a fairytale instead of a pop singer at a metal concert.
“Hi Caleb.”
Hearing my name from her perfectly shaped lips sends error codes firing through my brain, leaving me speechless and struggling to reboot. I can’t process anything she says as words leave her mouth in a flurry of nervous rambling.
Fuck, she’s cute. I’ve always loved how fast she talks when she’s excited, eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiles through every word.
Suddenly, she holds her arm out, and I tune back in. The tips of her ears burn bright red beneath her platinum hair. Whatever just happened, she’s embarrassed by it.
“I came to invite you to hang out with us after the show, not to fan-girl over your music. We’re going to this club called Knotty Nature. They have a VIP suite, so it will only be the bands and any crew who want to go, no fans,” she stammers.
…she wants to hang out? With me? At a club?
Wait, the bands, plural. So her pack will be there.
Of course they’ll be there, dumbass, they’re her mates. What pack would let their bonded Omega go dancing alone with a random Alpha?
Should I want to subject myself to watching the love of my life with another pack? No. Am I still going to go?
“Sure,” I tell her, because apparently I’m a masochist. But only for her.
“A few drinks and bar food will be a great way to celebrate a good show,” Joey chimes in, clapping me on the back hard enough to hurt.
“I’ll give your manager the details?” She glances at Bea, who quickly agrees, and then they’re gone.
My heart aches, but the feeling isn’t as overwhelming. The flood of nervous excitement from seeing Skye again surpasses the pain of knowing she’ll never be mine.
Bea reappears an hour later when Shattered Horizons’ set ends. I was tempted to sneak to the wings and watch them perform, but I couldn’t muster the will to witness the success of the men who replaced me.
“Ready to get out of here?” our manager asks, a wicked glint in her midnight-blue eyes.
Lee groans from his spot on the couch, already knowing our night is nowhere near finished. “You want us to go sign things for the fans, don’t you?”
Bea pulls stickers from her pocket for us to pass out. “Let’s get a move on, gentlemen. Your fans are waiting.”
Slipping a jacket over my cut-off, I toss the guys theirs and meet Bea at the door. We may be hot as hell after performing, but standing outside in the late October air with sweat-soaked clothes is a one-way ticket to regret when we get sick later.
“C’mon, the faster we get out there, the faster we get to leave.”
I’m in hell and suffering through endless moments of regret.
Knotty Nature’s VIP area is packed, but the crowd does little to diminish the overwhelming tides of uncertainty, arousal, and sadness from battering my already bruised heart.
I knew watching Skye with her mates would hurt.
What I didn’t expect was to enjoy it.
This has to be some voyeuristic nightmare I’ll wake from any second.
She’s on the dance floor, pressed between her tallest mates. Shattered Horizons’ lead singer and their drummer are both huge men, especially when standing next to her five foot three frame.
The drummer, Onyx, has one hand splayed across her stomach possessively, holding her against him, while the singer, Sterling, leans down and whispers in her ear.
The words fill her eyes with heat and her cheeks tinge a delightful shade of pink.
My cock twitches in my jeans, and I silently curse myself for agreeing to be here.
He knows what it’s like to be welcomed between those silky soft thighs and sink into warm, wet heat to be smothered in her slick.
And he’s ready to be there again. To remind her how explosive things used to be between us.
What my dick fails to realize is she isn’t ours, she’s theirs. We gave her up, and now we have to live with the consequences of that decision. Including watching her find happiness in someone else’s arms.
The couch beside me sinks as someone claims the open seat.
I’m surprised to find Bellamy, their guitarist, sprawling out with a bottle of water in his hand.
“If they had margaritas, I’d be in heaven,” he tells me when I eye his drink.
Not that I care what he’s drinking, I’m just confused why he’s sitting beside me instead of joining his packmates across the room.
“Yeah?”
“Your set was sick,” he says with a wave of his hand. Strands of his long blonde hair fall down around his face where they’re escaping the bun he pulled them into, and he quickly brushes them back. “Love the theatrics. It’s like a concert and a movie all in one.”
“Uh, thanks. That was our manager’s idea. She’s pretty genius.”