“Your natural voice is better,” I say before I can stop myself.
His head turns, those green eyes catching mine with an intensity that makes my stomach flip. “You think so?”
“Don’t fish for compliments. It’s beneath you.”
“Nothing is beneath me, firebird. I have absolutely no shame.” But his smile softens into something almost vulnerable. “Thank you, though.”
We’re halfway back to the inn, the three of us walking in a formation that feels deliberate. Atticus beside me, Mason three paces ahead, his shoulders rigid as steel beams. He hasn’t spoken more than two words since we left the bar.
I’ve given up on trying to figure out what’s going on with him.
“Have you ever thought about going back to it?” I ask, partly because I’m curious and partly to fill the silence.
“Back to what?”
“Just you and a guitar. No production. No fancy studios. Just… raw.”
Atticus laughs, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “The industry doesn’t work that way.”
“Since when do you care how the industry works?”
“Since my father owns half of it.” He kicks the same pebble I did, sending it bouncing ahead of us. “Some chains are harder to break than others.”
“That sounds like an excuse to me.”
Full lips pursed, Atticus eyes me narrowly. “You couldn’t have liked the song that much since you walked out before I even finished.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I just needed some air.”
“Sure you did.” Mason’s voice cuts through the darkness, sharp and accusatory. He hasn’t turned around, but his shoulders have gone even more rigid. “That’s why you came back in smelling like cigarettes.”
The defensive spike of irritation wars with guilt in my chest. I’m an adult. I can have a cigarette if I want to. But the lookon Mason’s face—not anger, exactly, but something closer to disappointment—makes me want to confess everything.
Instead, I pivot. Hard.
“I met someone outside,” I announce, with no clear idea why I’m even bringing it up. “This cute alpha who saved me from a biker. Very hot. With ocean eyes. And a claiming bite, unfortunately.”
The words tumble out in a rush, and I watch Mason’s expression shift from irritation to confusion to something I can’t quite read.
Atticus raises an eyebrow. “Ocean eyes, huh? Tell us more about this alpha.”
“His name is Judah Daniels,” I continue, grateful for the distraction. “He has this whole rugged fisherman thing going on. Very solid. Very…real.” I’m babbling now, but I can’t seem to stop. “And he was so polite. Not in that fake Hollywood way, but genuinely considerate. Like he actually cared whether I was okay.”
“Can’t be that good of an alpha if he’s claimed and still sniffing after you,” Atticus grouses, sounding genuinely perturbed.
“He wasn’tsniffing,you ass. He just wanted an autograph for?—“
“What kind of flowers do you want to get for Stephanie?” Mason interrupts, voice flat.
I blink at him. “What?”
“We need to get flowers. For Stephanie.”
I stop short. “Wait, why? I thought she was just at the hospital getting checked out. I assumed she’d be discharged by the time we’re supposed to leave.”
“Stephanie is in the ICU,” he explains, voice very carefully neutral.
My heart drops. “What? I thought she was just getting checked out. She didn’t seem that bad when we left last night.”
