Page 72 of Hymns of the Broken
The crowd roars, but I only care about one answer.
I grin straight at her, voice going rough. “Are you watching, Trouble? Because you won’t want to miss this.”
The crowd eats it up, but I know it’s just for her.
I jump down, press myself to the barricade, let the fans claw at me, but my eyes never leave Sawyer’s. She’s snapping photos, lips parted, cheeks flushed, every inch of her shining for me.
The lights strobe, the crowd is screaming, and my pulse is pure adrenaline as I prowl the edge of the stage as we hit the chorus, a song that’s never felt as dirty as it does nowwith her front row. I lean into the mic, and my voice goes low, almost a growl:
“Bet you taste like trouble—
Bet you like it rough.
If you beg for mercy, I’ll never get enough.
Don’t pretend you’re innocent—
You’re just waiting for sin.
Come backstage, baby, let me wreck you again.”
The crowd goes insane, arms in the air, girls screaming like I wrote it for all of them. But my eyes are on her.
She knows.
She flushes, shifting on her toes, lips parting when I lick mine, and I swear, she nearly drops the camera.
I step back from the mic and grin, wild and reckless. For a second, the noise blurs away, and it’s just me and her, electric, daring, and dirty as hell. I rip into the next verse, each word a promise.
“You’re not leaving clean tonight—
No one else gets to see this side of you.
When I say you’re mine,
I mean, you’re fucking mine—
Camera flashes, bare skin, midnight crimes.”
And I hope to God she hears me over the noise—because every word is a threat and a promise. She’s not getting out of here untouched.
SAWYER
My whole body’s vibrating by the time the last song fades, the crowd’s screams pulsing through me like a drug. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I’m not even pretending to hold the camera steady. All I can see is him wild on stage, eyes glued to me, every word a threat he intends to keep.
I try to slip backstage, try to disappear into the chaos, but he finds me before I make it ten steps. His hand closes around my wrist, leaving no room for questions—hauling me out of sight, behind a wall of black crates. I barely have time to gasp before he’s there, crowding me against the metal, body heat drowning out everything else.
He’s still vibrating with adrenaline, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes dark and fucking dangerous. “You really think you can look at me like that, all set and walk away, Little Sin?” His voice threaded with menace.“You looked real fucking comfortable between me and Riot earlier. Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you blushed. How you stopped breathing the second we both touched you.”
He leans in, mouth brushing my ear. “You can play all the games you want, Sawyer—but I’m not in the mood to share. Not with him. You’re mine. And I’m gonna remind you exactly what that means.”
My heart skips.Not with him.
The words echo, hit harder than I expect—because part of me liked being between them earlier. The rush, the attention, the hands that didn’t belong to just one man. I didn’t pretend to pull away. And he saw it.
Shit.
I should say something. Should fight the flush creeping up my neck. But I can’t. I’m not sorry. I don’t want to be.
