Page 1 of Claimed By the Band

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JORDAN

The busy cafe bustles around me to a soundtrack of clinking cups and murmured conversations. I hunker down in my corner booth, laptop open, fingers flying across the keys so fast I'm pretty sure something is about to start sparking.

It's not exactly a great place to focus, but the public WiFi here is my shield along with a VPN and half a dozen other methods of encryption, masking my digital footprints as I probe the defenses of my latest client.

A tech company hired me anonymously to test their security vulnerabilities. It's child's play, really. Their firewall might as well be made of tissue paper. I'm in within minutes, ghosting through their systems, leaving breadcrumbs for their IT team to follow later. Just to make sure they patch up all the holes.

Considering how much this client is paying, it's well worth it. And that check funds my more illicit hobbies.

My phone buzzes, a news alert flashing across the screen. I've got special notifications set up for anything omega-related.

The headline gives me pause. Not the usual counterprotest or asshole politician waxing philosophical about how omegas need to get back in the home. "Violence Erupts at Wild Honey Concert—Omega Singer Targeted."

I click through, scanning the article with growing horror.

"Wild Honey, the chart-topping rock band led by outspoken omega vocalist Asher Wilde, was attacked on stage during last night's performance."

The details are like something out of a nightmare. Masked assailants somehow breached security, releasing a gas designed to throw any nearby alphas into an extreme version of rut. The other band members, four alphas bonded to the lead singer, were hospitalized after coming to his defense from a surge of affected alphas who rushed the stage.

The police say they're investigating it as a hate crime, citing Asher's omega rights activism as a likely motive, but I know how that will pan out.

I study the photos, my jaw clenched tight. The stage is in chaos, instruments scattered like broken toys. Security guards and band members grapple with drugged alphas from the crowd while panicked concertgoers flee.

And there, in the center of it all, is Asher Wilde.

Even in the grainy cellphone footage, he's magnetic. Tall and lithe, with artfully tousled blond hair and violet eyes that immediately mark him as an omega, as rare as they are even among the general omega population. But there's nothing submissive about his stance. He's positioned protectively in the midst of his bandmates, microphone stand brandished like a weapon.

It's the kind of scene that would make one hell of an album cover, if it wasn't born out of a real-life nightmare.

I can't help but feel a grudging admiration. He's not cowering, not running. He's standing his ground, defiant in the face of hate. It's not exactly typical omega behavior.

Then again, neither is anything I do.

I click through more photos, studying each of the band members. They're an attractive bunch, no denying that.

The dark-haired drummer, muscles bulging as he shields Asher with his body, looks absolutely massive even compared to the huge alphas around him.

The bassist is pretty jacked, too, wielding his instrument like a club. His tousled, reddish-brown hair and the flannel he's wearing over his black T-shirt and jeans make him look like a lumberjack-rockstar hybrid.

The lead guitarist has longish black hair and piercing green eyes set with murderous intent at the alphas charging the stage as he stands back-to-back with the leaner rhythm guitarist. He's the lithest out of the bunch, but still plenty muscular with short, choppy dark hair and near-black eyes.

One look at them all and it's easy to see why they're all over every magazine I glance at by the grocery store checkout.EspeciallyAsher. But I have to admit, I'm impressed that a bunch of hot rockstars actually came through in such a high-pressure situation.

One that could have easily turned lethal.

"Sir? Here's the coffee you ordered."

I startle, looking up to find a waitress hovering by my table. She's a young beta, probably barely out of high school, with a hopeful smile and a light dusting of freckles across her nose.

"Thanks," I say, accepting the mug with a nod. She lingers, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

"Can I get you anything else?" she asks, her tone just a shade too friendly to be purely professional. "We've got some great pastries if you're hungry. I know you come here a lot, but you never get food."

I sigh internally. Another location I'm going to have to ditch if I'm regular enough to draw this kind of attention. This happens more often than I'd like, especially since I started binding and dressing as a male beta.

My brown hair isn't even that short, falling just above my shoulders in a versatile style that can easily switch between quirky bob and skater boy, depending on the occasion. The bindings keep my chest flat, and I'm not exactly "gifted" in that department as it is. Baggy sweats and jeans do the rest.

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