Page 4 of Hymns of the Broken
Jasper is center stage. He wraps one hand around the mic stand while the other is dragging through his black hair like he’s already tired of the world. He’s dressed in black jeans, black boots, and a sleeveless hoodie that exposes the twin sleeves of ink crawling down his arms like sins tattooed into skin. A reaper with an hourglass. A serpent, chaos blooming in roses.
I adjust my ISO.
Click.
I crouch down and ease toward the edge of the stage where the glare won’t wreck my frame. My knees scrape against the metal surface, and my jeans cling to my skin. Heat radiates from the overhead lights in steady waves, and sweat beads along the back of my neck.
I’m focusing on his form when it hits. I glance up and freeze. He’s looking at me. Not scanning the crowd or acknowledging the roar of the audience chanting his name like a hymn.
My stomach drops.
Not because I’m scared, but I feel a thread of something ancient and inevitable.
My fingers tighten around the camera like it’s the only thing keeping me from stepping forward.
He shouldn’t be looking at me like that. I don’t know this man, and I don’t want to know him. I don’t need a tragedy in a leather jacket pretending to see through me.
His gaze isn’t casual; it’s consuming—like he’s peeling back my layers one by one, cataloging every crack, as if he’s planning exactly where to dig deeper.
I should look away. I need to remember why I’m here and focus on my job. But my muscles refuse to cooperate, and neither does my lungs. I stand there, heat rising in my throat, my pulse racing like a frantic drum under my skin. I can’t break the stare, even as my heart pounds against my ribs as if it’s trying to escape.
I force my hands to move—to lift the camera between us.
Click.
The shutter sounds louder than it should, like I’ve just broken something fragile. For half a breath, it snaps me out of whatever this is. But he remains unaffected. He doesn’t flinch or blink.
But his lips twitch with just a flicker of amusement.
I glance down at the display.
Red lights, a microphone, an atmosphere filled with grit, and the stare of a goddamn menace.
And his eyes.
Eyes that shouldn’t see me—not like this, not beyond the protection of my lens. But they do. They see too much.
I’m not the girl that rockstars notice, and I don’t want to be. Especially not the ones who look like they crawled out of their own graves just to scream into a mic.
I take two more shots—quicker now, forcing my gaze to sweep the rest of the stage. The lead guitarist steps forward. The bassist flips his pick into the crowd. The drummer is a blur, his drumsticks flying through the air. The pianist'd fingers moving just as fast.
I take the photos, but none of it matters.
Because he’s still watching me.
What is he even doing? Why is he staring at me? Has he even engaged with the crowd? Has he even saidanything at all?
The drums snap me out of my thoughts for only a second as the song roars. Jasper’s voice rips through the air, rage laced with something that sounds like damnation and salvation all at once. His throat works with every word, veins flexing, jaw tight as he spits the chorus like a confession meant only for me.
I don’t hear the lyrics. Hell, I barely hear the song at all.
All I hear is the beat of my heart, hitting with the bass of the drums.
The final note crashes. The drummer hammers the last beat like a warning shot.
Then—
Silence.
