Page 9 of Claimed By the Band

But one look at the determination etched on Asher's face, and I know that's not going to happen. He's not going to rest untilwe find the people responsible for the attack. And where Asher goes, I follow.

God help us all.

The drive back is quieter, the initial excitement of the meeting giving way to a tense silence. Asher's curled up in the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone with a frown. Probably checking the news, looking for any updates on the investigation. Not that there's likely to be any.

Dante's dozed off in the backseat, his soft snores a counterpoint to the hum of the engine. Lucky bastard.

My mind races, replaying the meeting over and over. There was something off about Adam, beyond the obvious paranoia.

But Dante vouched for him, and I trust Dante. As much as I'm capable of trusting another human being who isn't Asher.

I glance over at Asher, my heart clenching at the sight of the fading bruises on his face. He catches me looking and quirks an eyebrow.

"Eyes on the road, handsome," he teases, but there's a tension in his voice that wasn't there before.

I reach over, lacing my fingers through his. "Talk to me. I know you're worrying."

He's quiet for a long moment, thumb tracing absent patterns on the back of my hand. When he speaks, his voice is quiet.

"What if this Echo guy doesn't help us?"

The vulnerability in his tone makes my chest ache. It's not often Asher lets his guard down like this, even with me.

"Then we figure something else out," I say firmly. "We're not giving up. I promise you that."

He nods, but I can see the doubt lingering in his eyes. "I just... I can't shake this feeling. Like we're running out of time."

I frown, not sure what to make of that.

Actually, I’m not sure what to make of him being like this in the first place.

4

JORDAN

The alley behind the pharmacy reeks of piss and rotting garbage. I wrinkle my nose, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. It's deserted, just like always, but I can't shake unease crawling its way up my spine. Years of paranoia have honed my instincts to a razor's edge. Right now, they're screaming at me to get the hell out of here.

But I can't. Not yet.

I check my watch. 11:58 PM.

She's late.

A door creaks open, and I tense, hand automatically reaching for the taser concealed in my jacket pocket. But it's just Mira, the pharmacy tech I've been bribing for the past three years to get my suppressants and blockers without a prescription.

"You're late," I growl, keeping my voice low and gruff.

Mira rolls her eyes, fishing a small paper bag out of her coat. "Chill, dude. I had to wait for my manager to leave. You want these or not?"

I snatch the bag from her hand, realizing I probably look like some junkie. But my nerves are frayed. I fish out a wad of cash from my pocket and hand it to her.

"Same time next month?" she asks, thumbing through the bills.

I grunt noncommittally. Truth is, I don't know where I'll be next month. The tech conference in Bayview is looming on the horizon, a tempting challenge and a potential nightmare all rolled into one. Part of me wants to go—to prove to myself that I can face my past, that I'm not still that scared little omega who ran away all those years ago.

But the rest of me? The rest of me is fucking terrified.

Being surrounded by a bunch of alphas is never a good idea, even under the best circumstances. Even with suppressants and blockers, there's always the risk of going into heat. And now, with extremists using pheromone-based weapons? One whiff of the wrong toxin and I'd be outed faster than you can say "omega rights."

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