Page 33 of Hymns of the Broken
My ears are ringing from the screams, my fingers still twitching around the camera, heart racing like I’ve just run a mile barefoot on broken glass. But it’s not from adrenaline; it’s from Jasper.
He looked at me, spoke to me over the mic in front of thousands. Every word feels like it’s burned into my skin.
I plan to sneak off so I can calm down, hide behind the press booth, maybe duck into a trailer, anywhere I can breathe without his voice crawling down my spine.
Too late.
Footsteps hit the asphalt behind the stage.
“Running off already?”
Shit.
I turn around and—fuck me.
He’s still glowing from the stage lights, sweat clinging to his throat and collarbone, that goddamn smirk playing on his lips like he already knows what he’s done to me. And he’s shirtless. It’s probably tossed somewhere backstage, and now I have a full view of his chest. I try not to stare at the skeleton hands holding an anatomical heart that’s inked there, but I am struggling.
I cross my arms, trying to bite the inside of my cheek to stay grounded. “You’re supposed to be hydrating. Whatever it is rockstars do when they’re not—”
“Making you stare?”
“Wrecking my nerves,” I mutter, but it sounds weak. Pathetic. And the way he’s looking at me makes me press my thighs together.
And he saw it. Oh, he saw all of it.
“You flinched when I sang that second verse,” he says, like an accusation and a dare rolled into one. His voice cutting through every flimsy wall I’ve tried to put up. “You thought no one noticed, didn’t you?”
“You imagined it, I was just doing my job,” I snap, but it comes out too fast. Too defensive.
“You don’t flinch because of a job, sweetheart. You flinch at ghosts.”
The words land like a blade, sliding between bone and memory.
“Get some water, Jasper,” I said, trying to turn away.
His fingers catch my wrist with enough pressure to remind me he’s stronger, faster, and dangerously close to everything I keep hidden.
“You look too good shaking like that,” he says, eyes locked on mine like I’m the only thing worth seeing. “Makes me wonder what else would make you tremble.”
My pulse spikes as I yank my arm back, forcing air into my lungs. “I’ve got work to do.”
“And I’ve got time to kill,” he counters. “Funny how the universe keeps putting us in the same damn place.”
I move to walk off again, but I only make it two steps when his hand is grabs the back of my neck, turning me so I’m almost nose to nose, and forcing me against the wall of crates.
Too close. Too sudden. My ribs cinch like a trap. Instinct screams, move, but something hotter holds me there.
The air shifts instantly. Not to mention my brain completely going silent once he’s caging me in with a presence so heavy I forget how to stand on my own feet. One hand braces the wall beside my head, his chest close enough that the heat from his skin bleeds into me.
Caged used to mean danger.With him it feels like a warning…and a shelter. I don’t know which one to choose.
“The groupies will be descending later,” he says arrogantly. “Like they always do.”
The words slam through me harder than the crates at my back, but I’m still fighting.
“Why do you think I care?”
I hate my face gives me away, just the slightest flicker, but he catches it. He catches everything. His expression changes, not softer, but more predatory.
