Page 4 of Claimed By the Band

A commotion down the hall draws my attention. Damon's gruff voice carries clearly, his words slurred slightly from the painkillers.

"I don't give a rat's ass about protocol. That's my omega in there, and I'm going to see him!"

I can't help but smirk. Even drugged and beaten to hell, our drummer's still a force to be reckoned with. Poor nurses probably don't know what they're dealing with. But the fact that he doesn't immediately come barreling out makes me think they tranquilized him like a raging bull.

Probably for the best, since his injuries were the worst after Knox.

Footsteps approach, and I look up to see Silas striding toward me. Our lead guitarist looks like hell, dark circles under his normally sharp green eyes and his usually perfectly styled black hair is a mess. Can't blame him. None of us have slept a minute since the attack.

"How are they?" Silas asks, coming to a stop beside me.

I shrug, aiming for nonchalance but probably missing by a mile. "Knox is still out. Surgery went well, though. Doc says he'll have a wicked scar above his eyebrow."

"Which he'll fucking love," Silas mutters, a hint of fondness creeping into his voice.

I nod, raking a hand through my dark hair. My fingers snag on something that's probably dried blood. I'm just not sure if it's from my bloody nose, or the guy whose face I split open when he tried to get to Asher. Despite the fact that we got into a majorbitch fight not five minutes before we went out onstage, we all rallied around our omega like a single unit.

It's easy to forget sometimes, given how often Silas and Knox butt heads, but we're all pack. Family. For all our posturing and alpha bullshit, we'd die for each other in a heartbeat.

Hell, Knox nearly did.

"Any word from the cops?" I ask, desperate for some good news.

Silas's face darkens, that obnoxiously chiseled jaw clenching. "Fuck all. They're 'investigating,' whatever the hell that means. Load of useless?—"

He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath. I get it. We're all on edge, and Silas has never been great at feeling helpless. He's a man of action, our fearless leader. And right now, there's precious little he can do.

"They're all still in custody, right?" I ask hopefully. The last thing we need to worry about is those freaks coming after Asher again.

"For now," he says in a tone that suggests I'm not going to like what comes after. "It's legally tricky."

"How is it fuckingtricky?" I cry. "They attacked our omega!"

"I know," he says with a heavy sigh. "But the first responders and the hospital staff confirmed they were all under the influence of some kind of chemical compound."

"A compound?" I wrinkle my nose. "What kind of compound doesthat?"

"I guess that's what they're investigating."

We both fall silent, sitting with the non-answers that are all we really have to contend with. How are we supposed to hold these fuckers accountable if they're just puppets, and we don't know who really did this? If any alpha in our audience could be turned into a weapon against Asher in a split second?

"I've hired more security," he says after a moment. "Fired the idiots who let those fuckers get anywhere near the stage in the first place."

I raise an eyebrow. "That was fast."

Silas meets my gaze, eyes flashing with rage. "Not fast enough."

I nod. Nothing will be fast enough, thorough enough, to ease the guilt and fear gnawing at all of us. We're alphas, for fuck's sake. We're supposed to protect our omega, and we failed.

Spectacularly.

"There's more," Silas says, his voice low. "The cops say there's been a string of omega-related attacks lately. They think it's some kind of organized group that's behind the compound."

My blood runs cold. "Targeting Asher specifically?"

Silas nods grimly. "Not just him, but yeah. They warned me he's likely to be a continued target, given how outspoken he is about omega rights. And tonight's attack would probably spur more."

"Fuck," I breathe, running a hand down my face. "What else?"

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