Page 3 of Hidden Fates

Our first show takes place in ten days, with the other two following the weekends after. The thought of climbing onto a stage and performing again sends sparks up my spine. Cheering crowds, blinding lights, and music.

Yeah, that’s exactly what I need.

Lee throws an arm around my shoulder as we leave. “You know what that means? We’re back on the bus.”

He cackles louder when I dislodge him from my side. I fucking hate being on the bus. It’s cramped and smells like a gym locker room no matter how deeply I clean it. Our tour over the summer had us living out of that stinky piece of shit for over two months.

I should book hotel rooms for these shows instead. Sending Bea a quick email, I ask her to help me set them up. She replies with three bookings, already one step ahead of me.

Guess we get to avoid the bus after all.

Chapter Two

Life as the mate and manager of a chart-topping Omega artist is chaotic at the best of times. There are always emails needing responses, employees calling with questions, and fans waiting to meet their idol.

Managing it all gives me migraines, but the pain is worth keeping my Omega safe. I would tackle any task if it meant she was happy, healthy, and unharmed.

Which is why I have to hide a scowl as she rushes to meet me at the door to our Los Angeles home. The smile she gives me is brittle, and she doesn’t quite meet my eyes.

Gripping the back of her neck, I rub a thumb across her throat, checking her body temperature and gauging the tension in her muscles. Her skin doesn’t feel warmer than normal, but her body is rigid, the weight of responsibility settling too heavily on her shoulders.

What my Omega needs is to destress, not to push her limits in the studio.

Opening the passenger door, I help her slide onto the seat and buckle her in. She rolls her eyes halfheartedly, soft pink lips twitching in amusement. I brush my cheek against hers, scent-marking her. Her relieved puff of air against my cheek solidifies my change in plans for the day.

No more stressing over albums or shows.

Today is for pampering.

Skye’s rich, musky floral scent fills the car as I shift us into gear, my palm falling to rest on her thigh just below her white shorts. Her fingers play with mine as we drive into the city. It’s adorable the way she draws aimless patterns onto my skin, her eyes closed and head tilted back.

After we hit the highway, I roll her window down, knowing how much she loves to feel the air across her face.

“You missed the exit,” she mumbles, not bothering to open her eyes as we continue further into the city.

“I know.”

That has her eyes popping open, those stunning green orbs narrowing at me. Her lips part, words of protest sitting on her tongue, but I silence her with my finger. “No arguments, Omega.”

Frowning, she licks my finger, making me glare at her from the corner of my eye. What a brat. Still, she doesn’t argue. Calling her by her designation lets her know I’m speaking as her Alpha, not as her manager or her friend.

Two hours later, I guide her down the sidewalk toward her favorite spa. One perk of her celebrity status that I put to regular use is a standing booking at Paradise Creek. It’s essential for days when her stress levels exceed a manageable range.

Like when she’s been working herself to the bone to put out an album after a successful world tour and without a break in between.

It’s my fault for not putting my foot down sooner, but saying no to her is difficult when I witness firsthand how passionate she is about her music.

“A spa day?” she asks as I push open the door and follow her inside, my hand resting on the small of her back.

“You need pampering.”

She chews on her lip, forcing me to free the abused flesh before she can hurt herself. “But the album⁠—”

“Can wait,” I cut in, my tone gentle but insistent.

Her shoulders slump, the true level of her exhaustion finally surfacing as she lets her mask drop. “Okay, but we’re going to the studio tomorrow.”

“I do not make promises I cannot keep, Omega,” I remind her.