Page 6 of Hymns of the Broken

That’s when I finally get a good look at her.

And, fuck, I was already sure.

But this?

This confirms it.

She’s all black eyeliner and dreadful nights wrapped in curves that weren’t made for the stage lights—they were made for sin. She’s a lot shorter now that I can see her better, but she stands like she knows exactly how much damage she can do without ever raising her voice.

I can see the colors in her hair now. Hair black as midnight at the roots, bleeding into a riot of teal and lime—like someone dipped her in rebellion and didn’t bother rinsing her clean.

Her lips are full, parted just slightly, a medusa piercing glinting in the bow of her upper lip. Diamond studs catch the light from both nostrils, a horseshoe through her septum. I’ve always heard that girls with all three done are a little unhinged—not that I’ll be complaining. She has a piercing through one eyebrow. And when she shifts, I catch sight of a tattoo peeking out from the top of her tank top in the center of her chest. And I want nothing more than to be able to see the rest of it. She has another stretching across her inner arm—a strip of film twisted around a dagger that’s wrapped in thorns.

Art wrapped in pain.

That’s all I needed to know.

My eye’s move to hers—big and blue, filled with so much challenge that I almost smile.Almost.

I’m fucked.

Right now, though, I’m too focused on how she tries to size me up while keeping her guard up. She doesn’t realize I’ve already memorized every detail about her.

SAWYER

“Rough night, or do you always drink like you’re trying to forget something?”

I knew he’d come over. I didn’t know when, didn’t know why, but I felt it the second he walked off the stage. Some people radiate attention; Jasper Reign consumes it.

I blink. Once. Twice.

He’s still there.

“Is that your version of small talk?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady despite the wildfire raging inside my chest. “Because it sounds more like something you’d hear over a dead body from a true crime doc.”

His mouth twitches like he might smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They are too dark, too sharp, as if he is already halfway through undressing my soul and wondering how loud it will scream.

And up close, he’s even worse. Dark eyes, jaw carved like sin, black ring in the side of his lower lip. Lips that look soft enough to make me forget what breathing feels like. I start to turn my head, maybe to break the spell, but that’s when his scent hits me—dark, clean, something sharp like cedar and smoke—and it’s fucking intoxicating. It wraps around my brain like velvet and gasoline, making it even harder to look away.

“You didn’t answer,” he says as he leans in closer, making my spine straighten. “Was I right?”

“Do you talk to all the girls like this?” I ask, tilting my head—hoping he can’t see the pulse ticking in my throat.

“Just the ones that matter.”

The words hit harder than they should. I shouldn’t like the way he says that, but something traitorous in me leans in any way.

I shake my head, pushing off the barstool with a little more force than necessary. My shoulder brushes his as I pass, static biting my skin.

“Thanks for the unsolicited psychoanalysis,” I shoot back. “Didn’t know rockstars moonlight as amateur therapists.”

“Right. Photographer.” He falls into step beside me like it was inevitable. “You shoot bands often, or just the ones you secretly listen to in the dark?”

I laugh, dryly. “Please. If you think I have your songs on a playlist, I’m gonna need to see that ego deflate in real time.”

“You don’t deny it, though,” he says grinning.

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the way the corner of my mouth pulls. He notices—of course he does.