Page 31 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

They’re rockstars in the flesh—each one of them effortlessly magnetic in that way you can’t fake.

Sam’s in his usual tight long-sleeve thermal and black beanie, arms crossed like he’s already scoping out the surroundings.

Chace’s got that lazy swagger, a leather jacket hanging open over his flannel, his sticks sticking out of his back pocket like they’re part of him.

Trey’s in all black, hoodie up, rings flashing every time he lifts his hand to push it back—and despite his low profile, girls are already pointing and whispering.

But it’s Logan they keep staring at.

Logan with his windblown hair and jaw carved out of sin.

Dark denim, heavy boots, black thermal rolled to his elbows, veins standing out on his forearms as he tugs me closer.

The strap of his guitar case cuts across his chest, and even with all the noise and movement and chaos—he makes it look like his stage, his show.

And I’m in his spotlight.

He hasn’t let go of my hand once.

I’m bundled up in a thick ribbed knit coat, the hem just brushing the tops of my thighs, my red and black plaid skirt with black tights underneath and my favorite heeled ankle boots that I regret almost immediately—festival ground is not a friend to fashion.

Logan’s hoodie is layered under the coat, the hood pulled up over my beanie, and the sleeves are long enough to cover most of my hands.

It still smells like him—cologne and mint and the kind of temptation that never fails to make my knees weak.

He pulls me through the crowd like he’s done it a thousand times, and every time someone shouts his name or flashes their phone for a selfie, he’ll pause—but only after tugging me snug to his side.

His arm wraps around my waist, his hand resting just under the edge of my coat, fingers warm and possessive over the curve of my hip. He never let’s go.

And every time he leans down to kiss me—in between photo flashes and shouted questions—I melt a little more.

“You know they’re taking pictures of you,” I whisper against his mouth after the third kiss in ten minutes.

Logan just grins, brushing his nose against mine. “Good.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re mine,” he murmurs. “And I want the whole damn world to see it.”

My heart practically flips.

A group of girls rush over, barely able to form full sentences through their excitement. One of them is already shaking as she asks Logan for a picture, her friend holding out a permanent marker and tugging up her jacket sleeve for Trey to sign.

The boys take it in stride—smiling, posing, signing everything from posters to phone cases to a bra that I definitely saw someone whip off right in the middle of the crowd. Trey signs it without flinching. Chace just raises a brow and laughs.

Sam eyes me while he takes a picture with a couple of girls. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I nod, surprised that I mean it. “It’s a lot, but... it’s good.”

Sam flashes his warm grin. “Get used to it.”

Someone yells Logan’s name again. He looks up, waves, and the girl actually squeals.

“Think I should be jealous?” I tease, bumping my hip against his.

Logan doesn’t answer—just catches my chin between his fingers and kisses me right there in the middle of the crowd, like I’m air and he’s been holding his breath.

When he pulls back, his voice is gravel wrapped in honey. “Not a chance in Hell.”

My knees go weak.

“Logan!” a festival staffer calls from near the VIP gate. “We’ve got soundcheck scheduled in ten. You good to head in?”

“Yeah,” he nods, then looks at the rest of the guys. “Let’s go.”

We move toward the gated entrance with a security escort, but Logan still doesn’t let go. His fingers stay laced with mine, thumb sweeping over the back of my hand like a secret only we share.

Trey slings an arm over my shoulders once we’re inside the quieter backstage area. “You ready to watch your man destroy hearts and melt panties all over again?”

I roll my eyes, but my smile gives me away. “Always.”

I stand off to the side, just out of the crew’s way, hugging Logan’s hoodie tighter around me, letting it swallow me whole.

The boys fall into rhythm without hesitation, like this is their real language. The one they were born speaking.

Logan takes his guitar from one of the crew, slinging the strap over his shoulder in that easy, confident way that makes my heart kick.

He rolls his shoulders back, fingers adjusting the tuning pegs with a precision that has no business being that hot.

Then he steps into his spot near the mic, adjusts the height, and his fingers begin to move.

God. His fingers.

They fly over the strings—steady, sure, fast in the places that demand it, and slow in others, dragging the sound out like he’s teasing the notes to the edge before letting them go. Every movement is precise. Purposeful.

I bite my bottom lip, watching the way the veins flex in his forearms, how his grip shifts, knuckles tightening, how his hands work that instrument like it’s an extension of his body. And all I can think is those hands have been on me. On my hips. My thighs. My face. Between my legs.

The way he plays—how skilled, how focused—it’s downright indecent.

I clench my thighs, feeling heat swirl in my belly. My cheeks flush, and it has nothing to do with the Montreal chill.

I know exactly what those fingers can do. The pressure, the control, the way he knows when to go soft and when to grip just right. Watching him play like this is almost too much—it’s intimate, but on display. Like he’s performing for me, and no one else knows it.

He looks up suddenly—like he feels me watching—and meets my eyes from across the stage.

And that smirk?

That slow, wicked curl of his lips that says he knows exactly what I’m thinking?

Yeah. I’m definitely in trouble.

Logan leans into the mic, voice low and teasing, “Check, check—hey, baby, can you hear me?”

My stomach flips.

The sound tech’s voice crackles over the headset: “Loud and clear, Romeo.”

Trey snorts. “Better get used to that. He’s all kinds of sappy now.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I call back, still breathless from the look Logan just gave me.

Chace starts the count with a knock of his sticks. “One, two, three—”

The first notes punch through the chilly morning air like fire. Sam’s bass rumbles beneath it all, a thick, sensual pulse, and Chace lays down a beat so tight it drags my heart into sync with it.

But it’s Logan I can’t stop watching.

He’s not just hot—he’s devastating. Focused. Electric. And when he steps forward to sing, his voice rasps into the mic like smoke and sex and promises I want to cash in on later.

My entire body hums in response. Mine, I think, watching the way girls in the crowd crane their necks to catch a better glimpse of him. All of them looking. Some even calling his name.

But he only looks at me.

Logan’s fingers fly across the strings like they’re a part of him, each note slicing through the chill in the air.

Sam’s bass throbs beneath it, a heartbeat pulsing in time.

Chace drives them forward, tight and precise, while Trey’s voice cuts above it all—smoky, strong, somehow both jagged and smooth as velvet.

They’re not just playing.

They’re performing.

And for the next song, Logan takes over vocals, stepping to the mic like the stage was built beneath his boots. His voice is lower than Trey’s, rougher around the edges, but there’s this ache in it that punches straight through my chest.

He catches my eye as he sings one of their newer ballads, something slow and aching and beautiful—and I know he’s singing it for me. Every lyric. Every breath.

I press my hand to my chest, like that’ll help keep everything inside.

They run through four songs total, and by the end of it, a small crowd has gathered just outside the barriers.

Festivalgoers who wandered in early, drawn by the music—or maybe just the buzz of them.

Phones are already out, screens glowing as they record snippets of the band’s soundcheck.

The boy’s wave as they finish, all smiles and easy charm, but Logan comes straight to me.

“You okay?” he asks, brushing a thumb over my cheek. His skin’s cold, but his touch is warm.

“Yeah,” I breathe. “You were—Logan, that was incredible.”

He leans in, brushing his lips against mine, just enough to steal the rest of my air. “Just wait for the real thing, carino.”