Theo’s pen stilled mid-scratch. Max leaned forward, his boots hitting the floor, his eyes locked onto him as though Oliver had bared his soul.
Which was probably an apt description.
By the final syllable, Oliver’s hands were clammy, his heart hammering against his ribs. He forced himself to hold their stares.
Theo’s voice was almost reverent. “That’s the most emotionally disciplined thing I’ve heard in a long time.”
Relief flickered through Oliver’s chest.
“I liked it,” Max said, his voice low and dangerous. “Although I felt as if you were holding something back. As though someone’s got you on a leash.”
The words landed like a punch. Heat climbed Oliver’s neck. He waited—God, he waited—for the rejection.
Theo rose instead, offering a card. “If you’re in, rehearsals will be twice a week. Leather’s optional—until it’s not.” His mouth quirked into what felt like a rare smile, even based on such a short acquaintance.
That sounded as if he’d made it.
“And because Theo was being unusually hazy in his choice of words,” Max said with a smirk, “that means we want you. If you still want to be a part of this, and we haven’t put you off.” His eyes sparkled with humour.
Oh my God.
Oliver’s voice scraped out, quiet but steady. “Thanks for seeing me. And yeah, I still want to join.”
Max’s gaze didn’t let him go. “You’ve got something. You’re going to shake people up.”
Oliver met those eyes. “Maybe I need someone to shakemeup.” Spoken without a single flinch.
Max’s grin was all teeth. “Okay. That’s hot.”
Oliver didn’t smile back. He couldn’t, not with the need to flee crawling under his skin. He pushed himself out the door, his heart pounding, adrenaline surging.
This is it. This is the fire I’ve been missing. The one I won’t put out.
Oliver had left a few minutes ago, and Max was still replaying the performance. Not just the voice—rich, guttural, velvet laced with smoke—but the way Oliver carried himself, like a man braced against a storm only he could see.
“This one intrigues the hell out of me,” Max said finally.
Theo snapped his notebook shut. “Technically flawless. But there’s armour. Thick armour. I want to see what happens when it cracks.” He shook his head. “Iseveryonewe see going to be hiding something?”
Max was silent.
Theo arched a brow. “Nothing to say about the voice?”
Max’s laugh was sharp. “The voice? Perfect. No argument. But everything else? He’s submissive. Couldn’t hide it if he tried. The way he deferred, the way he swallowed words instead of speaking them. He holds and holds until he breaks. And when he breaks?” His grin sharpened. “He’ll soar, and it’ll be beautiful.”
And I want to be there when he does. Not sexually—Oliver wasn’t the kind of guy Max played with—but musically.
Theo’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t about whatyou’ddo to him. It’s about the group.”
Max rolled his eyes. “Who says Iwantto do anything to him? But those aren’t mutually exclusive. A man like that on stage? That’s fire waiting to explode. That’s unforgettable.”
Theo exhaled, his lips twitching. “You’re impossible.”
Max stretched, unapologetic. “Maybe. But Oliver Bennett? He’s ours. And when that armour slips, when it breaks, he’ll stop being merely good—he’ll be devastating.”
Theo scribbled a final note. “Then we take him. But we tread carefully.”
Max’s smile returned, sly and certain. “Careful’s overrated.”
