Page 27 of Lyric & the Heartbeats

“It’s the band’s space,” she corrected without thinking.

“I’ll practice at home,” he said, ignoring her comment and placing the guitar gently in its holder before striding toward her.

She stepped to the side, unable to do anything else but stare as he drew closer. The expression on his face was just one step up from polite. But it was forced. The cracks in his facade had split and widened a little more with each passing day, each time the music had stuttered to a stop because one of them tripped up.

It was so fake she couldn’t stand it, and frustration rushed through her. Days of irritation and confusion reached its boiling point, and she growled as he walked past her and put his hand on the knob.

“What is your problem with me?” she bit out. Slowly, she spun to face him.

His hand was still on the knob, his back straight, eyes turned forward. Tension lined his back and shoulders.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.

Lyric ground her teeth together. “Well, we’re going to be touring together for the next six weeks. Might as well get it all out on the table now. Get it over with.”

When he didn’t answer, only stood there, she fisted her hands until her nails bit into her palms. “Is it because I’m an omega?” she asked quietly.

She’d written two albums. Sold out a tour. She took suppressants. They dulled her sense of smell and her own scent, but not her creativity. But still, her station as an omega was all that some saw when they looked at her. Was that all Emerson saw?

“It’s not because you’re an omega,” he answered, but it felt like a lie.

I’m not joining some spoiled omega’s collection.

Their very first conversation came to mind, and she rolled her eyes. “Your first words to me said otherwise. But say I believe you. That the fact I’m an omega doesn’t bother you. What does bother you then?” she questioned.

She didn’t have to prove herself to him. Emerson could either see her as a musician of equal—if not better—talent, and learn to work with her, or he could leave.

Despite how she’d felt the day she’d chosen the band, she would find another bassist if she had to.

As the silence dragged on, she wanted to shake him. She wanted to crawl inside his mind like a book and flip the pages of his thoughts and find out what the hell was bothering him.

Stupid alphas. Couldn’t they just use their words?

“That you’re spoiled,” he bit out.

Lyric rocked back on her feet and put her hands on her hips. “Spoiled?”

He waved his hand around the room. “Okay fine. At first, yes, I was jealous and a little bitter that you got signed and I didn’t. But I got over it. So yes. Spoiled. You get your pick of the most talented musicians in the city like some kind of pop princess, you audition them at a five-star hotel, you practice in this outrageously expensive private studio, you—”

“Want the best for my career? My tour? My band?” she growled, and leaned forward. “I’m sorry, are you seriously complaining because the rehearsal space is pretty?”

A tic pulsed in his jaw, but he remained silent, and her fingers clenched where she rested her hands on her hips. Leave marks on her skin or strangle the annoying alpha?

Decisions, decisions.

“I was hoping you’d prove me wrong,” he admitted, voice quiet and low. “That when we practiced and I got to see you in action, I’d be able to see the same omega who wrote ‘Finish Line.’ Who captivated the scouts and got signed from one performance.”

Lyric blanched. That was the most painful song to write. To sing. The hardest to get through without her voice breaking along with her heart. It was the seventh song on her second album, and it was rarely heard on the radio—if anywhere. The fact that Emerson picked that song to reference showed… she didn’t even know.

“That song is powerful, and I was hoping to see the same person who wrote it, who lived it. But instead, all I’ve seen is someone who won’t sing.”

Lyric’s eyes widened. What did he think she’d been doing in this same room for the past three days?

“Uhm, are you sure you’ve been in the right place? I’ve been singing.”

“You’re singing lazily,” he snapped. “After three days of rehearsing with you, I’m wondering how the hell someone like you produces such intricate, passionate music if you did it the same way you’re rehearsing with us.”

When he emphasized the word you, he motioned behind him to the microphone.