She turns and takes off for the SUV, so I follow her lead, the dolly rattling behind me, and even though the moment was rough, even though she bristled, even though I messed up the landing…
She didn’t walk away.
Well… she literally did, but hopefully not in a metaphorical way where she wants nothing to do with me.
* * *
We walk into the arena through the back entrance, the familiarhum of preshow chaos already vibrating through the concrete halls. By the time we get to the green room, Celeste’s steps pick up. When she gets through the door, she takes off in a run and shouts, “Link!”
He passes his drink to Rowan and braces as she jumps, with what looks like full force, into his arms. He catches her easily, laughing as he spins her once, then twice, like she weighs nothing. Her laughter echoes off the metal walls, bright and unguarded, and something in my chest pulls tight.
I’m glad she has him. I really am. But watching her light up for someone else still hits harder than I want to admit.
He sets her down, kisses the top of her head, and says something that makes her shove his shoulder and roll her eyes. Then he spots me and gives a mock salute, flexing his tattooed arm like an idiot.
“Morning, soldier,” he calls.
I lift a hand in acknowledgment, keeping my expression neutral. No point in letting him see how much I’m still trying to get my footing around all this.
He slings an arm over her shoulder and steers her toward the space they get ready in, and she doesn’t look back.
I linger a few seconds, letting the noise of the arena swallow the hollow feeling in my chest. Then I pull out my phone and step away from the foot traffic.
The call connects on the first ring.
“Tell me you’ve got something,” I say, skipping the greeting.
There’s a pause as Orion chooses his words carefully. That’s never a good sign.
“Not much,” he says finally. “We pulled some security footage near her rig. The figure’s hooded, so it’s hard to get a clean ID, but it could’ve been James. He went in empty-handed and came out with a backpack that looked stuffed.”
My stomach drops. “Stuffed with what?”
“We don’t know yet. But given the state of the rig? Could’ve been personal items.”
I close my eyes, jaw tightening. “Do you think he took Korbyn’s things?”
“It’s possible.”
“Keep me posted.”
“Always.” His voice softens, just a fraction. “And hey—watch her. She’s putting on a good face, but after our phone call earlier, I can tell she’s stressed.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, ending the call. “I will.”
I slip the phone back into my pocket and glance toward where Celeste, and now the whole band, is getting ready.
Stepping out of the room, I retie my hair to a low knot while I try to get my thoughts together. Right now, all I can do is wait in the hallway while I pretend patience comes naturally to me.
21
Celeste
The crowd’s roar still hums under my skin as we spill into the green room, the four of us shedding stage adrenaline like glitter. Sweat, laughter, and exhaustion blur together in the soft lamplight someone mercifully switched on while we were changing. By the time I tug my clothes back on and sink onto the couch, my legs feel like overcooked noodles.
Link throws himself down beside me like he’s been shot, letting out a groan that sounds like it’s been fermenting in his soul for decades. “If I die tonight,” he announces to the ceiling, “tell the world it was my bodyguard’s fault.”
Korbyn, already stretched out on the floor like she’s auditioning to be a corpse, snorts. “What, do you think he’s going to try to kill you in your sleep?”
