Page 73 of Claimed By the Band

"There have always been threats," I explain, leaning against the counter. "Ever since he first hit it big. Never anything like what happened last month, but..." I trail off, remembering all the hate mail, the protestors, the anonymous calls. "Being in the spotlight makes him a target for anyone who thinks omegas should shut up and stay home."

"And you're okay with that?" Alex asks softly.

I can't help but laugh. "Hell no. It terrifies me. But I knew what I was signing up for when I fell in love with him. Asher was never going to be some submissive omega who let his alphas make all the decisions and keep him locked away 'safe.'" I make air quotes around the word. "I wouldn't want that anyway. It's not who he is, and it's not why I love him. He's the kind of person who was meant to shine, and I'm an asshole, but I'm not a big enough asshole to want to dim that light."

His smile gets bigger. I think it's the first time I've ever seen it reach his eyes.

God, they're nice eyes. I can kind of see why Asher gets that glazed look whenever he stares into them, which is often. Probably not as often as he'd like, but often enough.

But I can still see the tension in Alex's shoulders, the way his fingers keep worrying at that spot on his wrist. He might be loosening up a little, but he's not convinced. Not really.

"Listen," I say, keeping my voice gentle. "Whatever you're running from? Whatever your brother and his cult are planning? You're not responsible for that. And you being here doesn't put us in any more danger than we were already in."

Alex looks down at his hands, and I catch a glimpse of something raw and vulnerable in his expression before he can hide it. "You can't know that."

"Maybe not," I admit. "But I know Asher. And the rest of the pack. And none of us want you to leave."

His head snaps up at that, surprise written across his features. "Even you?"

"Even me," I confirm, and I'm surprised to find I mean it. "Though if you tell anyone I said that, I'll deny it."

That gets me another small laugh, but I can see he's still processing. Still trying to believe that he's not some burden we're tolerating out of obligation.

I shift my weight, studying Alex's tired face. "You hungry?" I ask, already knowing the answer. He's been up all night from the looks of it, probably running on nothing but coffee and anxiety.

"Yeah," he admits after a moment's hesitation. "But the others won't be up for hours. I don't want to wake them with a delivery."

I snort, already moving toward the mini kitchen. "Trust me, they'll wake up the second they smell food. It's like a superpower."

"You cook?" Alex asks, doubt clear in his voice as he watches me pull out pans and ingredients.

"Someone has to," I answer. "Can't survive on room service and takeout forever. Besides, I like knowing exactly what goes into my food."

It's more than that, though. Cooking grounds me, gives me something to focus on besides all the what-ifs and maybes that keep me up at night. Like right now, when all I can think about is Alex's brother and what his presence might mean.

"Need any help?" Alex asks, hovering uncertainly at the edge of the kitchen area.

"Sure," I say, tossing him an apron. "You can chop vegetables for the omelets."

He catches the apron with surprising grace, though he looks at it like it might bite him. It's one of Asher's, bright purple with "Kiss the Cook" bedazzled across the front. I don't even know why he has the damn thing, considering he's never set foot in the kitchen unless it's to steal food while I'm cooking or Damon is baking. The sight of the great and mysterious Echo wearing it over that oversized sweater does something weird to my chest that I choose not to examine too closely.

It's also hilarious. He's so not a rhinestones kind of guy. In fact, I don't even think I've ever seen him in a color that wasn't neutral. But I find myself wondering if that's a matter of preference, or just another piece of camouflage he's had to use to survive.

"I should warn you," he says, rolling up his sleeves. "I'm not exactly Julia Child in the kitchen."

"As long as you can handle a knife without losing any fingers, we're good," I tell him, pulling eggs and cheese from the mini fridge. "That's more than I can say for half the pack. We're just making omelets, not competing on Top Chef."

Alex moves to the cutting board I've set up, handling the knife with surprising skill as he starts dicing peppers. His movements are precise, efficient. Like everything else he does.

"You're pretty good with that knife for someone who claims they can't cook," I observe, whisking eggs in a bowl.

He tenses slightly, but doesn't stop chopping. "Guess it's more like I don't."

Huh.

"Well," I say, keeping my voice light, "Those are some perfectly diced peppers. If you choose to make a career leap from hacker to ninja, you'll do just fine."

His shoulders relax slightly, and I catch the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "Bell peppers aren't exactly preparation for an actual threat."

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