CHAPTER 1
BELLS
It's been five days since I went into heat at that industry party.
Since Phoenix and Rafael learned I'm not just a girl, but a fuckingomega, and we spent two days in a hotel room doing things that rewired my entire understanding of what my body is capable of doing and feeling.
And now I know they're both my scent matches, even if I still don't know what the fuck that actually means for us.
Phoenix keeps finding excuses to be in whatever room I'm in. He's been bringing me food, too, things like chocolate-covered pretzels and nuts. Sometimes I wonder if he thinks omegas are woodland creatures, but it's sweet.
Rafael's less obvious about it. I catch him watching me sometimes when he thinks I'm not paying attention, always with a vaguely wistful look in those dark eyes.
Rex, meanwhile, has perfected the art of existing in the same space while being completely fucking absent.
I've seen him exactly four times since Phoenix, Rafael, and I stumbled into the penthouse after being gone, and all four were glances in passing.
Always moving, always just out of reach.
The recording studio has become his second home. Or maybe his first home, and the penthouse is just where he occasionally sleeps. Phoenix says Rex's been there every day, sometimes all night, and they don't even know what he's doing.
I do.
He's avoiding me.
And I get it. I do. Especially since our war has gotten exponentially more fucked up since I realized he's my scent match and he has no goddamn clue because he doesn't know I'm an omega.
Just that I'm a girl he apparently finds attractive enough to get jealous over, if his reaction to Jamie's threesome proposition was any indication.
Or he's in denial.
I'm curled up on the sectional couch with my laptop, trying to finish lyrics for a new song Phoenix wants to workshop tomorrow, when Rex suddenly materializes like a ghost.
Speak of the fucking devil.
He's wearing all black—surprise, surprise—with the simple mask he prefers when he's not performing. His dyed black hair is disheveled like he's been running his hands through it all day. The tension in his shoulders and in the lines of his muscled back,visible even through his shirt, suggests he's been doing that a lot lately.
"You okay?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Rex freezes mid-step and turns his head slowly to look at me like I just tried to put a spell on him. Or maybe a curse.
"What?" His voice is flat and suspicious.
"You seem stressed," I say, shrugging.
His visible eye narrows. "I'm fine."
"Right. And I'm the Queen of England."
That earns me a snort that could be amusement or annoyance. With Rex, it's usually both.
"Why?" he asks.
"Why what?"
"Why do you care if I'm okay?"
It's a fair question. We’re mortal enemies. Concern isn't exactly part of our dynamic.