Page 27 of Claimed By the Band

There's still a part of me that's worried he's just going to be a laptop on a rolling desk or something. But I guess we'll have to wait and see.

I wrinkle my nose, fighting the urge to sneeze as the new scent blockers I'm wearing struggle to filter out the assault on my senses. We're tucked away in a corner booth, as far from prying eyes as we can get in this cramped, dimly lit space. Not that there are many eyes to pry—the place is nearly deserted, just a couple of grizzled regulars hunched over the bar, lost in their own misery.

I guess that's why Echo chose it. He definitely prefers things to be discreet. I'm starting to think Silas is right about him being paranoid, but given his line of work, I guess that's to be expected.

I fidget with the collar of my oversized hoodie, tugging it up higher to cover the lower half of my face. I borrowed it from Knox, since the only casual wear I own is tucked away for nesting, but under the radar is the name of the game today. The others are similarly disguised—baseball caps pulled low, nondescript clothing that's a far cry from our usual rock star attire. We look like a bunch of college kids slumming it, which I suppose is better than being recognized.

Couldn't resist topping the look off with a pair of designer sunglasses, though. A guy has to havesomestyle.

Knox lets out a low whistle, his eyes scanning the grimy interior. "Well," he mutters, "Echo certainly chose the creepiest fucking place possible for this meet-up. You sure this guy isn't planning to harvest our organs?"

I shoot him a glare, but I can't entirely disagree. The place looks like it hasn't seen a health inspector since the ‘70s.

"Maybe that's the idea," Dante muses, echoing my thoughts. "Can't get much more off-the-grid than this dump."

Silas snorts, his fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on the sticky tabletop. "Great. So not only are we meeting a potentially dangerous hacker, but we're doing it in a place where no one would hear us scream. Fantastic."

I roll my eyes, even as a whole herd of butterflies migrates across my stomach. "Will you all relax? Echo's here to help us, remember?"

"Yeah, well, forgive me if I'm not entirely thrilled about putting our lives in the hands of some faceless keyboard warrior," Knox grumbles.

It's not good when he and Knox are on the same page.

The conversation devolves into speculation about what our mysterious hacker might look like. Damon, of course, imagines Echo as some hulking, muscle-bound alpha—probably projecting his own ideals onto our digital savior.

"Nah," Dante argues, shaking his head. "He's gotta be one of those lean, wiry types. Probably wears a black hoodie and has tape over his laptop camera."

Knox barks out a laugh. "Sounds like you're describing a stock photo of a hacker."

Dante flips him off, but there's a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

It's nice to see the alphas bantering again, even if it is at the expense of our absent ally. The tension that's been hanging over us since the attack has been suffocating. This playful back-and-forth feels like the first breath of fresh air we've had in ages.

I tune them out, my eyes fixed on the door. Every time it swings open, my heart leaps into my throat, only to plummet back down when it's just another nameless patron stumbling in for a midday drink.

"What do you think, Ash?"

Dante's voice pulls me back to the present. I blink, realizing I've completely lost the thread of conversation. "Hm?"

"Echo," he prompts. "What's your take? What kind of guy are we dealing with here?"

I chew my lip, considering. The truth is, I have no idea. But there's something about Echo—something in the way he writes,the passion that bleeds through even his most clinical messages—that doesn't fit with any of their guesses.

"I don't know," I admit. "But I don't think he's anything like what you're picturing. There's just something about him that feels... different."

Knox snorts. "Different how? Like, 'actually a serial killer' kind of different?"

I shoot him a withering look. "No, you ass. Just... I don't know. But it doesn't matter what he looks like, does it? He agreed to meet us despite your little outburst, so can we all just be on our best behavior?"

Knox has the grace to look slightly abashed, but there's a stubborn set to his jaw that tells me he's not backing down entirely. "Hey, my 'outburst' is what got him off his ass and into the real world. You're welcome, by the way."

I open my mouth to argue, but the words die in my throat as the door swings open once more. A hulking alpha saunters in, all muscles and swagger, and for a moment I wonder if Damon's prediction was right. But the newcomer makes a beeline for the bar, not even glancing in our direction.

I can't help the sigh of relief that escapes me. It's ridiculous. I have no idea what Echo looks like, so why should I care?

But there's a part of me that wants himnotto be an alpha.

I mean, I love my alphas, but if there's one thing they all have in common, it's that they deal with threats the direct way. No finesse or savvy involved. That's why this anonymous attack is driving them all crazy. There are no heads to bash in. No names to call out.

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