I spit at him.
It catches him across the cheek.
The silence that follows is the loudest thing I've ever heard. Louder than the crowd, louder than the pyrotechnics, louder than the gunshot that dropped Rex.
Rex.
The thought of him hits me like a punch to the sternum and something inside me reaches, stretches outward through whatever fragile bond connects us, desperately searching for him.
He's alive.
The bond is barely there. A gossamer thread, strained and flickering, nothing like the solid warmth I feel from Phoenix and Raf.
Because the only mark on my body is the incomplete one from the man standing in front of me, and that mark was never completed, never consented to, and the real bonds—the ones that matter—are unmarked and raw and new.
But Rex is alive.
And he's…
What the fuck?
Something chaotic is pouring through the thread.
Something unhinged and incandescent that makes my hindbrain flatten its ears and whimper. Like standing on train tracks and feeling the vibration in the steel before you hear the engine.
Coming closer.
Fast.
Stephen wipes the spit from his cheek with one finger. Examines it. His expression is terrifyingly calm.
"Act like a lady," he says.
I bat my eyelashes at him. "What, am I ruining the illusion?"
His jaw tightens.
"You built this whole fantasy," I continue, leaning against the bars with a posture I've perfected over years of pretending to be someone I'm not. Cocking one hip. Letting the jacket fall open. Tilting my head so my white hair catches the amber light and the collar sits just so against my throat.
But this is the real me this time.
"The cage, the roses, the pet names," I continue. "You wanted a songbird. Here I am."
Stephen's eyes track down my body. Up again.
I force my heartbeat to slow. Force my breathing even. Channel every ounce of stage presence I've ever had into making this man believe what I need him to believe.
"You're right," I say softly. "I'm scared. I'vebeenscared. Of Rex, of the band, of everything." I let my voice crack. Just enough. "You're the only one who ever really knew what I am."
His chin lifts.
"Because youseeme," I whisper. "You always did. Even before anyone else."
The narcissist in him can't help it.
His shoulders relax by a fraction.
"I know you're angry," I continue. "I know I ran. But look at me." I wrap my fingers around the bars and press my face between them. "I'm right here. You caught me. Youwon."