Page 8 of The Rogues

But there is one thing I know for sure: because of the lie, that omega will have to live with the knowledge that Cyrus dated one of the most famous omegas in music, and that’s the reason for the hit of sympathy I feel in my stomach. I’m not sure how you can build a relationship with a band as prolific as The Rogues without constantly hearing about the “omega who got away,” and being compared to her day in and day out.

That sounds like a tiring existence, indeed.

THREE

“We’re on in sixty seconds!” someone calls, and those usual jitters that I feel before an interview start in the pit of my stomach.

I have no problem with performing in front of thousands of people, being sexy in photoshoots, or even being swarmed by fans when we least expect it. But with interviews, talk shows especially, my nerves are always up.

Being a rock star is as glorious an experience as everyone seems to think it is, but it comes with its struggles just like any job. Mainly, the gig is fun, but there’s a psychological aspect to it that, for me, can be a bit mind-boggling. I’m the frontman, so there’s a persona that my team wants me to put on in public. I’m meant to be mysterious, unattainable, and cocky, but in an attractive way. Apparently I’m good at it, according to my pack mates, but it’s still a nasty pill to swallow.

I’m supposed to remind the public of the good ole days, when rock stars were degenerates who trashed their hotel rooms and ate cocaine for breakfast to get through the day. That’s the illusion they want to give our audience, and I let them, but that’s not who I am. So, putting the mask on before interviews and performances is a little bit daunting and anxiety-inducing.

Maybe it reminds me of my days in England, when I was reprimanded for not answering correctly or not sitting properly. Even something as simple as having a cup of tea makes my heart race these days, because it reminds me of a time when I wasn’t my own person.

Being the son of an aristocrat can do that. You are told who you are before you can even form an original thought. How to speak, how to stand, how to walk. It’s all determined for you before you even know what your favorite color might be.

My sister flashes in my mind, her whimsical nature deplored by our parents. Leaving her behind to pursue the band was my only regret, but I needed to breathe. Needed to give my parents a valid reason to not expect anything from me anymore, and becoming something shameful like a famous rock star seemed to do the trick.

Still, I hope she’s doing well. She’s more prone to rebellion than I ever was, so I worry about how they are treating her.

I take in a few deep breaths, waiting to walk out onto the set and be bombarded with questions. Media training was easy for me, but there are always a few unexpected questions that hosts try to sneak in. It’s not their fault; they have a job to do too, but I’m really not in the mood to be asked something I’m not prepared to answer today.

A hand reaches out, fingers lacing between mine, and my breathing starts to even out. I don’t have to look up to know who it is. Serenity pours into me from the bond between us. “I’m here,” Jamie whispers, and his dark orchid scent hits my nostrils and instantly calms me. It’s woodsy, rich, and masculine, but also has a note of sweetness that always seems to pull me to my knees.

I still remember the first time I scented Jamie. Before we were The Rogues, we were just a bunch of kids who grew up together in Bristol. Most of the time, it was the four of us—Remi, Lennon, Malaki, and myself—but every summer since before I could remember, Jamie would come to visit his father’s family. He was a part of the group, even if he didn’t live in Bristol year-round, and we stayed in contact whenever he went back to California. He was the glue, a calming presence to our roguishness, and always kept us out of trouble while also joining in the fun.

It was only a few months every year, but they were the ones I looked forward to the most. The freedom, the shenanigans, and Jamie.

In our last year of school, all four of us had designated as alphas, and I felt powerful in my new body. I couldn’t wait to see our friend that summer, scent him, and see the look in his eyes when he scented me. But after Jamie turned eighteen and designated as a beta, I was forced to resign to the fact that I would never know what his scent smelled like. He had described it to me through his texts, told me that some of his cousins gagged the first time it came out, but I would never know if they were full of shit or if the scent was as glorious as I imagined. Unless we were scent matches, neither of us would ever scent the other, and that fate felt devastating.

So, when he came back that summer, his scent hit me like a ton of bricks. I still remember the look on his face when he realized he could smell me, too. Pure shock flickered over his beautiful features as he realized the same thing as me: that we were scent matches, fated to be together.

I never expected it, not in a million years.

And I also didn’t expect Malaki to scent Jamie, too, and for the pack bond to officially snap into place between the five of us.

That summer was a magical one. Despite years of being forced to endure systematic abuse at the hands of my parents, I finally had what I always wanted: a pack, a scent match, a family.

“Ten seconds!” I hear behind us, and we turn toward the open space of the set, preparing to hear our introduction, the rest of our pack by our sides.

“Let’s fucking do this,” Lennon whispers, his body thrumming with energy.

“Behave,” I mutter back to him, a slight bark in my tone. He bows his head, a whine falling, and guilt travels through my chest. I shake the anxious thoughts from my head. “Sorry, Lennon. I didn’t mean to project that onto you.”

“I was a little too ramped up,” Lennon admits.

“You and I both know instincts are more powerful than our fears,” Remi cuts in, staring at me. “Stop doubting yourself, Alpha.”

My chest expands, the beast in my chest preening at his words. “Thank you,” I mouth to him and he gives me a nod of reassurance.

I know most packs don’t have a second in command, but I swear, Remi is mine. He’s always there to reassure me, to help keep the others in line. He’s the one with the most control, in every aspect of our lives.

Jamie’s hand squeezes mine again, his thumb rubbing over the bond mark hidden beneath my sleeve. I let out a quiet groan, the cheeky movement overpowering my anxiety for a moment. Malaki chuckles, having felt my jolt of arousal in the link we share, connected by our bonds with Jamie.

He clasps my shoulder. “We’re right in front of you, Cy.”

I nod, knowing it’s the truth, and then our cue starts behind the black curtain, the live audience becoming wild.