Chapter 6
SIX
LUCA
The stage is half-lit, crew scurrying, monitors humming. Michael spots me first, does a cartoon double-take.
“Dude. You’re… here. Before our scheduled time.”
Min-ho glances up from tuning his in-ear pack, eyebrows lifting in quiet surprise.
And Kai—standing center stage, headset already on, mic positioned perfectly—freezes mid-sentence with Tasha. His dark eyes snap to me, widen for a split second, then narrow as though he’s trying to decide if this is a glitch in the matrix.
I don’t acknowledge the shock on his face. Just lift a hand in a casual wave to the group, drop my water bottle by the monitor line, and step up to my mark.
“Ready when you are,” I call to the sound guy.
Tasha recovers the fastest. “Well. That’s a first. Let’s run it.”
We power through the set—vocals crisp, levels perfect, choreo tight. I hit every cue. No flubs or jokes. I put in the work. Kai’s quieter than usual, but I feel his gaze on me between songs—assessing, suspicious, like he’s waiting for the punchline.
Soundcheck wraps at 5:15. I’m already heading backstage before anyone can comment on my punctuality.
The green room’s empty; I grab a towel from the counter and duck into the attached bathroom.
Hot water hits my shoulders like a reset button.
I close my eyes, let the steam fill my lungs, try not to think about the show ahead—or the way Kai’s eyes tracked me during the run-through as if I’d grown a second head.
The door opens.
I don’t turn right away; it’s not unusual for one of the guys to come in to grab something. Footsteps—hesitant—then stop.
I glance over my shoulder through the fogged glass.
Kai.
He’s frozen in the doorway, still in his rehearsal sweats, headset dangling around his neck. His eyes dip—quick, involuntary—down the length of my body. Water streams over my chest, my abs, lower. His gaze snags there for half a heartbeat before snapping back up to my face.
His cheeks flush red, bright and unmistakable. Our eyes lock through the steam. My cock twitches. Once. Clearly interested.
I mentally slap it down. No. He’s a no. Uptight. Judgmental. Hates you. Focus.
I turn off the water, reach for the towel on the hook, and wrap it around my waist without hurry. “You need something, Jung?”
Kai blinks, clears his throat. “I—uh. Tasha said wardrobe’s running late. Thought you might want your jacket.”
He holds up the black leather piece like it’s evidence.
I step out of the shower stall, water still dripping down my torso. “Thanks. Set it on the counter.”
He does. Doesn’t move to leave.
I raise an eyebrow. “You gonna watch me get dressed too, or…?”
That snaps him out of it. He spins on his heel, cheeks still flaming. “I’ll be outside.”
The door clicks shut.
I exhale, lean my palms on the sink, and stare at my reflection in the fogged mirror. Platinum blond hair plastered to my forehead, hazel eyes bright with flecks of more green than usual. My dick’s still half-interested, traitor that it is. I ignore it, dry off fast, and start getting ready.
Wardrobe’s already laid out my stage look on the bench: sheer black mesh top, the kind that clings when you sweat and shows every line of muscle underneath.
Low on my stomach, the chain tattoo curls across my hip bones—thin silver links inked in 3D, dipping toward my waistband like they’re pulling everything lower.
A couple other pieces peek through the mesh: the small constellation on my left pec, the script along my right ribs.
Leather pants—tight, black, studded with silver chains that jangle when I move.
Silver chunky necklace heavy against my collarbone.
Crystal knocks once, then barges in with her kit. “Sit, pretty boy. Let’s make you sparkle.”
I drop into the chair. She works fast—eyeliner first, thick black wings that sharpen my gaze.
Glitter along the cheekbones, a dusting of iridescent silver that catches the light.
A touch of cream blush to warm the skin, then lip stain—deep natural red that makes my mouth look bitten, wet, inviting.
She runs product through my hair and blow-dries it into that effortless tousled wave that falls just right.
“Done,” she says, stepping back. “You look dangerous.”
I check the mirror. Yeah. I look like trouble. The mesh top stretches tight across my chest when I stand. Chains glint low on my hips. Necklace cool against heated skin. Hair perfect—platinum strands falling into my eyes, just enough to look planned.
I went commando again, because why not—and the chains settle against my thighs. The outfit’s designed to move, to tease, to make every hip roll and chest pop feel like foreplay.
I catch my reflection one last time.
This is the version of me the fans want.
The one who doesn’t miss cues. Who shows up early.
Who sells the fantasy without apology. And tonight, when I grab Kai’s chain on stage, when I lean in to suck the sucker from between his teeth, when the crowd screams Kuca like it’s gospel—I’m going to make sure it looks effortless.
Even if my pulse is anything but.
I head for the door.
Time to go to work.
Backstage is controlled chaos—monitors blaring the opening act’s final chorus, crew shouting cues, the low thrum of the crowd vibrating through the concrete walls. Vector’s killing it out there; the screams are already feral, the kind that makes your blood buzz before you even step foot on stage.
I’m leaning against a flight case, arms crossed, mesh top already clinging from the pre-show heat.
I haven’t put on the jacket yet, but I know I have to for a little, at least. Crystal’s glitter still catches the overhead lights like I’m wearing stardust. My leather pants feel like a second skin, chains cool against my thighs.
Hair perfect. I’m ready as I’m ever going to be.
The rest of Eclipse filters in one by one. Michael first—already hyped, bouncing on his toes, cracking his neck. Min-ho next—quiet, focused, giving me a small nod of approval when he sees I’m actually early. Tasha’s barking last-minute notes into her headset.
Then Kai.
He walks in from the opposite hallway, and the air shifts.
Black leather pants—same cut as mine, tight enough to show every line of muscle when he moves.
Matching. Intentional. His top is sleeveless black, cut low on the sides to expose the ink running along his ribs: elegant Korean script curling down his side like poetry carved into skin.
Thorn vines climb from his chest, twisting up his neck in sharp, delicate lines—reaching toward his throat like they’re trying to choke the control right out of him.
The tattoo disappears under his collarbone, but the suggestion is there. Dangerous. Beautiful.
His skin is pale, almost luminous under the stage lights—flawless in a way that makes me wonder if it’s makeup or just him.
His dark eyes are rimmed in thick black liner, shadows smudged at the corners, making them look deeper, sharper, like they could cut through the dark.
And his lips—stained the same deep, bruised red as mine.
Crystal’s work, probably. But on him, it looks less like art and more sinful.
He stops when he sees me looking. Doesn’t say anything. Just holds my gaze for a beat too long.
I push off the case, step closer, trying for casualness as I close the distance. The chains on my pants jangle softly.
“Damn, Jung,” I drawl, letting my eyes drag down his body and back up. “Did wardrobe decide we’re matching tonight, or are you finally admitting you want to coordinate with me?”
Kai rolls his eyes—hard, dramatic, the way he does when he’s trying not to react. But I catch the faint flush creeping up his neck, right where those thorn vines end.
“Save the lines for the fans,” he mutters, brushing past me toward the stage wings. His shoulder grazes mine—barely a touch, but enough to send a spark up my arm.
I smirk, falling into step beside him. “Oh, I will. But you’re making it real easy to sell tonight. All that ink on display? The vines around your throat? Looks like you’re begging to be grabbed.”
He shoots me a sidelong glare, lips pressing into a thin line. “Keep talking and I’ll make sure the throat hold ends with my fist.”
“Promises, promises.”
Michael laughs from behind us. “You two are worse than Vector’s drama. Save it for the stage.”
Tasha appears, clapping her hands. “Thirty seconds. Positions. Vector’s wrapping—crowd’s primed. Let’s go.”
I shrug into my jacket as we line up at the wings. Michael and Min-ho first, then Kai and I side-by-side. The opening act’s final note crashes into fans' screams. Lights dim out there, then flare back up-blinding white, waiting for us.
Kai’s breathing is steady, controlled. Mine isn’t. Not quite.
I lean in just enough for only him to hear, voice low. “Try not to blush when I put my hand on your throat this time, princess.”
He doesn’t look at me. Just rolls his eyes again—slower this time, almost amused despite himself.
“Try not to get hard when I take that sucker from your mouth,” he fires back, barely audible.
The cue hits.
We step out.
The arena explodes.
The lights hit like a drug.
Twenty-five thousand voices crash over us the second we step out—raw, desperate, screaming our name.
Eclipse. Eclipse. Eclipse. The sound wraps around my ribs, squeezes, and I feel it all the way down to my toes.
This is what I live for. Not the money. Not the fame.
This—the rush, the heat, the way the stage makes every nerve in my body light up.
Adrenaline floods my veins, sharp and sweet.
My heart slams against my sternum, cock already half-hard from the pre-show tension, from the way Kai’s eyes flicked down my body in the shower earlier.
That split-second glance has been looping in my head ever since, and it probably meant less than nothing.
I shouldn’t want it. I shouldn’t want him.
But the stage doesn’t care about shoulds.
It amplifies everything. Lust. Hate. The thin, dangerous line between them.
We launch into the opener. Michael and Min-ho flank us, bodies moving in perfect sync, but the crowd’s eyes are on Kai and me. Always on us.
First big moment: the throat hold in the bridge of “Midnight Nova.”
I stalk toward him during the instrumental swell. The crowd senses it—screams spike, phones shoot up like a galaxy of tiny suns. Kai’s back is to me, facing the arena, leather pants hugging every line of his ass and thighs.
I close the distance and circle him before facing away from the crowd.
My fingers hook the silver chain at his throat—same one I yanked in rehearsal—and I pull.
Firm. Possessive. He stumbles forward one step, body arching into mine.
His chest hits my chest. Heat bleeds through the mesh of my top into his bare sides.
I tilt his chin up with my free hand, exposing the column of his throat where those vines twist like some sort of invitation to drag my tongue along them to trace them.
Then my palm slides around—fingers splaying wide, thumb pressing just under his jaw. Not choking. Just holding. Claiming.
His pulse hammers against my skin. Fast. Erratic.
Mine matches it.
The crowd loses it. “Kuca! Kuca! Kuca!”
I lean in, lips brushing the shell of his ear so the mic catches the rasp of my breath. “Stay still,” I murmur—low, scripted, but the words feel too real tonight.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. Just holds the pose, eyes locked forward, jaw tight, lips parted just enough to show the red stain. His body is rigid, but I feel the tremor in his muscles—the fight not to react. Not to lean into me harder. Not to give in.
I hold longer than rehearsal. One extra beat. Two. Let the tension coil until it’s unbearable.
Then release.
He spins out of my grip on cue, launching into the next verse like nothing happened. But I see it—the flush creeping up his neck, right where my fingers were. The way his dark eyes flick to me for a fraction of a second, pupils blown.
Fuck.
My dick throbs against the leather. Not from the crowd. Not from the lights. From him. From the way his body yielded for that split second. From the memory of him walking in on me in the shower—eyes dipping down, cheeks burning bright when he was caught.
The set rolls on. Every shared glance feels loaded now. Every brush of our shoulders electric. The sucker moment in the closer hits like a bomb.
I’m fronting the crowd, hips rolling through the choreo. Kai steps in close—too close—unwrapping the prop slowly, fingers unhurried. He pops the candy into his mouth once, twice, then clamps the stem between his teeth. Turns to me.
Our eyes lock.
I lean in.
The arena holds its breath.
My lips close around the sucker—lingering, teasing drag.
I take it from between his teeth with an unrushed suck, tongue brushing the edge of his lip as I take the candy.
Cherry bursts hot and sweet. His breath hitches—barely audible, but I feel it against my mouth.
His hand comes up on instinct, fingers curling around my wrist.
The crowd erupts. Phones flash like lightning.
I pull back just enough to hold the stem between my fingers and let the sucker slip free with a soft pop, then lick my bottom lip, while staring straight into his eyes.
His pupils are huge. Cheeks flushed under the flawless makeup. Lips parted, redder now from the friction.
For a heartbeat, the script dissolves.
I am not feeling hate for him now.
Instead, lust fills me, pure, crackling, undeniable lust. And I don’t hate it at all.
The final chorus crashes in. We freeze in the big pose—bodies pressed hip-to-hip, heads tilted together, mics crossed like swords. My hand finds the back of his neck again, thumb brushing the tiny hairs there. His fingers dig into my waist, just under my tattoo, nails biting through mesh.
The lights strobe. Red. White. Black.
House lights drop.
Screams swallow the dark. We don’t move right away. His breath is ragged against my ear. Mine matches it.
Then he pulls back—and stalks offstage first.
I follow a beat later, cock aching, skin buzzing, high on the rush and on something far more dangerous.
The stage didn’t just amplify the performance tonight.
It stripped the lie bare. I don’t hate him at all.