The door's unlocked, which seems like a terrible security decision in this neighborhood. I push it open and immediately get hit with a wall of incense and patchouli so thick I can taste it. Not the cigarettes and stale beer I expected. The walls are covered in what I can only describe as someone's acid trip made permanent—swirling colors and melting faces and geometric patterns that make my eyes water if I stare too long.
"Bells!"
I barely have time to register the voice before I'm being lifted off my feet. Phoenix—all six-foot-six of him—has wrapped me in a bear hug that would probably crack ribs if I wasn't wearing the reinforced binder today. His shaggy blond hair tickles my face as every last puff of air is crushed from my lungs, and fuck, I forgot howbighe is, all broad shoulders and comfortable bulk.
"Can't breathe, man," I wheeze, and he immediately steps back, hands up in apology.
"Sorry, sorry. I'm a hugger." Phoenix lets me go with a nervous laugh, dragging a hand through his mane of blond hair. "Just... shit, man, I didn't think you'd actually show."
"Yeah, well." I adjust my jacket, trying to look casual while my heart hammers against the reinforced prison of my binder. "Here I am."
"Here you are," he agrees, that golden retriever energy practically vibrating off him. Maybe Saint Bernard is more accurate, considering the sheer size of the alpha. "Rex is gonna?—"
"Going to what?"
The voice cuts through the incense-thick air. Rex emerges from a doorway I hadn't noticed, wearing tight black pants and a tank that shows off muscled arms covered in intricate black-and-gray tattoos. The tattoos on his right arm are textured differently, the ink faded and blotchy in spots, and I find myself wondering if they're covering scars like his mask is.
Today's mask is different—matte black leather and simpler, with silver studs along the edges. Understated, but post-apocalyptic.
Fitting.
His single visible eye zeroes in on me with laser focus. "6:01. Right down to the razor wire, are we?"
The threat hangs between us, unspoken but crystal clear. He'd said the video would go live at 6:01 if I didn't show. I'd walked through that door at 6:00 precisely because fuck him and his power games.
"I'm here, aren't I?" I shoot back, matching his hostile energy with my own. "Would you prefer I showed up early and eager like a good little puppet?"
Phoenix's gaze ping-pongs between us, clearly sensing the tension but not understanding its source. "Uh, should I?—"
"Go check on Rafael," Rex orders without looking at him. "Make sure he's actually setting up and not screwing around on his phone."
Phoenix hesitates for a second, those kind blue eyes searching my face like he's trying to figure out if I need rescuing. Sweet, but unnecessary. I've been handling alphaholes since I sang my first note on stage.
"Go," Rex repeats, and this time there's enough edge in his voice that Phoenix actually moves, disappearing deeper into the warehouse.
The second we're alone, Rex steps closer, and I have to fight not to step back. "Follow me."
He turns without waiting for a response, heading down a narrow hallway that smells like mold. The walls are covered in more psychedelic artwork, but here it's darker, more twisted. Screaming faces melting into abstract shapes, hands reaching out from swirling voids.
We end up in what might generously be called an office but looks more like a storage closet someone threw a desk into. Rex closes the door behind us, and suddenly the space feels even smaller.
"How much do they know?" I ask before he can start with more bullshit.
"They know what they need to know." He leans against the desk, arms crossed, that single eye studying me like I'm a particularly interesting specimen. "That you're joining the band. That you're incredibly talented. That Stephen Hughes is a piece of shit who deserves what's coming."
"But not that you're blackmailing me."
"Would you prefer I told them?" His head tilts slightly, a smirk curving his lips. "Phoenix would try to white knight you. Rafael is a wildcard, but he'd likely do the same. Would that be better? Or worse?"
"Worse," I mutter. "So we're lying to them."
"We're compartmentalizing information."
"Fine," I say, pulling out my phone and hitting record. "But if we're lying to them, we're doing it my way. I won't hurt Phoenix or Rafael. They don't become collateral damage in your war."
His eye narrows at the phone. "Don't record me."
"Hey. You have your insurance. I'm building mine. Every meeting, every threat—it all gets recorded. Mutually assured destruction works both ways, Rex."
