Page 51 of Claimed By the Band

ASHER: But how else am I supposed to know it's you and not a crocodile who stole your phone?

I blow an errant strand of hair out of my face and grab my newly filled mug off the coffeemaker tray. It's pitch black, just the way I like it, and I can't help wondering what Asher would have to say about that.

Crocodiles can't type.

ASHER: That's what a crocodile would say.

Don't you have a world tour to manage?

I pull up my Internet browser after I send the text and look up the band's current stop out of curiosity. Sure enough, they're in Riverton.

ASHER: At this point, the songs practically sing themselves.

Well, some of us have work to do.

But I’m fighting the smile tugging at my lips even as I type that out.

ASHER: Point taken, Mystery Man. I'll leave you alone on one condition.

And what's that?

ASHER: Just promise me the next time you need to disappear to maintain your aura, or whatever it is you do, you'll send a heads up first? A one-word text will do. We'll have a secret code. Maybe… Pineapple?

I hesitate, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.

It's not a big ask for normal people, but what about me is normal? I've lived my entire adult life on the premise of anonymity. No strings attached. No meaningful connections. Nothing to tie me down or trip me up.

This feels like one hell of a string, and yet, even if I should be taking this as an opportunity to shut down whatever the hell this is, I don't have the heart.

Fine. I'll give you a heads up next time.

I blink, temporarily blinded by the blur of sparkle hearts and kissy face emojis that instantly flood my screen. I'm pretty sure those are his version of a victory cry.

ASHER: Okay! Back to your scary hacker stuff.

ASHER: And… Alex? I'm glad you're okay.

I set the phone down, my hands shaking slightly. This is dangerous territory. I can't afford to let anyone get close, least of all Asher and his pack.

They're clients, nothing more.

When I get another notification, I'm prepared for another block of emojis, or maybe another cat gif, but instead, it's an email from Maria letting me know the results are ready and she's dropping them off at my P.O. Box in person.

Finally.

19

KNOX

Grunting, I add another plate to the barbell. The hotel gym isn't bad, as far as these things go. At least they've got decent free weights. My muscles burn from the earlier set, but the physical strain helps keep my mind focused. Helps me not think about how I want to punch a certain hacker in his digitally anonymous face for disappearing almost a whole damn week, and sending Asher into a total meltdown.

Across the room, Asher's on the treadmill, his golden hair pulled back in a messy bun as he jogs at what has to be an unreasonable pace. He's been at it for almost an hour now, which would be concerning if I didn't know exactly what—or who—he's trying to run away from.

At least he's actually working out instead of obsessively checking his phone every two seconds like he has been for the past five days. Five fucking days of watching him spiral, of seeing that spark dim in his violet eyes every time his messages went unanswered.

The new bodyguard—Marcus or Michael or whatever his name is—stands by the door, trying to look alert while obviously fighting sleep. Poor bastard drew the short straw for the early morning shift. But after what happened at the concert, we're not taking any chances. Not even in a supposedly secure hotel gym at ass o'clock in the morning.

I position myself under the bar, focusing on my form as I start another set of bench presses. The familiar burn in my muscles is grounding, helping me push back against the anger that's been simmering since Echo's disappearing act.

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