Page 46 of Hymns of the Broken
My eyes narrow, heat licking up the back of my neck. “I’m not claimed.”
“No?” His brow arches, that grin sharpening just a little. “Then how about a few shots of me today? You could make me look pretty. Or…” he leans in slightly, voice dropping, “…we hang out later after my set. Go ride something stupid and laugh too loud. Have some fun. You remember that, right?”
The flutter in my stomach is immediate. Unwanted. Confusing. He’s flirting, and not subtle about it—but there’s a softness under it, something disarming. Playful. Not nearly as dangerous as Jasper, but still… unsteadying.
“I remember fun,” I say cautiously. “I just don’t remember trusting strangers with my life.”He takes a step closer, close enough I catch the faint mix of sweat, cedar wood cologne, and just a trace of drumstick chalk clinging to his shirt. I stiffen—muscle memory—but he doesn’t push it. Instead, he reaches up, brushing gently along my cheekbone.
“There was an eyelash,” he says, holding it out between two fingers. “Make a wish.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
Riot doesn’t blink. “Dead serious.”
He holds the lash up like it’s sacred. “Could be the difference between a good day… and a legendary one.”
I eye him warily, the corners of my mouth twitching despite everything. “What if I wish for something reckless?”
He leansin. “Then I hope you’re ready to be reckless.”
The tension thickens. For a second, I forget the crowd around us, the noise, the camera still warm against my palm. It’s just his voice, his grin, and the way he’s watching me like he’s daring me to do something stupid with him.
“Fine,” I mutter, shutting my eyes and blowing the eyelash from his fingers. “Wish made.”
“What was it?”
“You’re not supposed to ask that.”
He grins like he already knows the answer.
But he doesn’t get to say anything else.
Jasper is there. Appearing silent and deadly. His presence hits like a pulse of heat, his arm brushing mine—barely, but enough to make my breath hitch. Riot’s eyes flick up instantly less amused.
“You’ve got something in her eye,” Jasper says. Flat. Accusatory.
Riot’s smirk returns, but it’s tighter now. “Handled it.”
“You’re still too close.”
“Sorry, man. I didn’t see the leash.” He spits out the last word as if it tastes bad.
“There doesn’t need to be.” His eyes cut to me, and the look alone makes my breath catch. It’s not possession the way Blake wielded it—chains and control for the sake of power. This feels heavier, scarier. Like gravity pulling at me whether I want it or not.
“She’s already mine,” he says, low enough it feels like a vow carved into my skin. “Even if she hasn’t figured it out yet.”
The words land like a brand. Terrifying, yes—but not the suffocating grip Blake used to choke out who I was. Jasper’s claim is different. It’s hunger. Obsession. The kind of thing that says he’d burn the world just to keep me standing in the ashes beside him.
Riot stiffens, the cocky smirk sliding from his face. Jasper turns toward him fully now, shoulders squared, that quiet rage radiating off him like heat.
“She’s not yours to provoke,” he says, voice like gravel dragged over steel. “Not yours to flirt with, not even yours to look at.”
Jasper steps closer, leaning in just enough that his next words are meant for Riot. And me.
“She’s mine. Every fucking breath she takes, every look, every sound she makes I own it. So next time you want to test that, make damn sure you’re ready to bleed because I’ll break every one of your goddamn fingers and we’ll see how well you drum with shattered hands.”
The threat is violent, but it’s not the same kind of violence I’ve lived through. Blake fought to control me. Jasper fights like he can’t survive without me. And that difference—God help me—sets me on fire instead of shutting me down.
Riot’s jaw flexes. He scoffs, but it’s weak, and then he steps back, hands raised. He looks at me, smirk returning just faintly, and throws one last barb over his shoulder.
