Page 50 of Claimed By the Band

ASHER: I'll take a fucking rolled up note delivered by carrier crocodile at this point. We just want to know you're ok.

The last message was sent just yesterday. Something warm and dangerous blooms in my chest at his persistence. At the genuine concern in his words.

And guilt.

Boat loads of guilt.

I'm not used to people caring where I'm at. I'm not used to anyone caring at all.

A part of me wants to retreat even further, to shutter the windows and bar the doors and turn off my phone and just forget I even exist, but another part can't bear the thought of another minute going by without at least letting them know I'm okay.

I type out several responses before deleting them all. What can I say?Sorry I disappeared, I was busy going through my first natural heat in years because being around your pack fucked with my suppressants?

Yeah, that would go over well.

I guess at least I wouldn't have to worry about him hounding me anymore. But there's a traitorous part of me that likes it.

Instead, I send a simple text.

Sorry, my phone was off. Had some personal matters to deal with when I got back. Waiting on the samples now.

His response is immediate as always. Not a full second goes by before I see the three little dots indicating he’s typing.

ASHER: Thank fuck! We were about to put your face on milk cartons haha

ASHER: I actually looked into it. It's more of a formal process than you'd imagine, and apparently, you can't report a legal adult whose real name you don't even know as missing. Rude.

I snort and send my reply before I can stop myself.

ASHER: Pretty hard to put my face on anything when you barely even know what I look like.

ASHER: I have a photogenic memory, thank you very much. I'd be able to tell the sketch artist you have shaggy brown hair, brown eyes with gold flecks, full lips that are in perfect proportion to the cutest nose I've ever seen.

ASHER: And that you look good in leather pants

Heat creeps up my neck as I remember the outfit he picked out for me. The way he looked at me in it. The way they all looked at me.

No. Not going there.

The heat is over, the suppressants are back in my system, and I need to focus on the job.

I stare at the text message for a few more seconds, my brain short circuiting. What the hell am I supposed to say to that?

It's photographic.

ASHER: Not the way mine works.

I roll my eyes. He's too fucking much.

And I must be losing it, because he's actually starting to grow on me.

I sent the samples to my contact last week. Should have results soon.

Deliberately ignoring his flirtation here.

ASHER: Can't wait! Especially if that means we get to see you again.

ASHER: There's no reason for us to meet in person again.

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