Page 17 of Claimed By the Band

I lean in closer, squinting at the grainy image. There's a figure moving against the flow of the crowd, heading calmly toward the exit instead of surging forward with the rest of the alphas affected by the gas.

It could be nothing. Could just be someone with more common sense than the average concertgoer. But my gut tells me it's worth looking into.

I make a note of the timestamp and the general location in the venue. It's not much, but it's a start.

My phone buzzes again, and I half expect it to be Asher with another quippy message. But it's Ace this time.

ACE: How's it going with the rock stars?

I type out a quick reply.

Fine. Working on it. You could have mentioned the singer was this high maintenance.

ACE: He's a singer. I thought it was implied?

I sigh.

Fair point.

ACE: You sure you don't want to reconsider the in-person thing? Could be fun.

I scowl at the screen.

Not a chance. You know the rules.

ACE: Yeah, yeah. Just thought I'd ask. Let me know if you need anything.

I set the phone aside and go back to work.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of scrolling through footage and combing through police reports. By the time the sun starts to set through the towering iron windows, I've got a decent list of potential leads to follow up on.

It's not much, but it's progress.

I pack up my laptop, stretching out the kinks in my back. The alphas left a while ago, much to my relief. As I head for the door, I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a window.

Shaggy brown hair, nondescript features, baggy clothes hiding any hint of curves. The perfect disguise. The perfect lie.

For a moment, I let myself wonder what it would be like to step out of the shadows. To work this case in person, to meet Asher and his pack face to face. To be... myself.

But then reality comes crashing back in. I can't afford to indulge in those kinds of fantasies. This is who I am now. This is the life I've chosen.

And I'll be damned if I let anything—or anyone—jeopardize that.

7

KNOX

The sharp sting of the nurse removing my stitches barely registers. I've had worse. Hell, a few weeks ago I had my skull cracked open by some psycho alpha hopped up on rut gas. This is nothing.

But I can't help flinching every time the omega nurse's fingers brush against my skin.

It's not the pain, it's the memory.

The phantom sensation of Asher's blood on my hands as I tried to shield him from the surge of crazed alphas. The sickening crunch as a fist connected with my face. The absolute certainty that I was about to fail the one person I've sworn to protect.

I glance over at Asher, who's sprawled in the chair next to the exam table. He's focused intently on his phone, thumbs flying across the screen. Probably updating the rest of the pack on my visit. Or maybe chatting with our mysterious new hacker friend.

"You know," I drawl, unable to keep the edge out of my voice, "a good omega would be holding my hand right now. Comforting his poor, wounded alpha."

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