Page 13 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

I snorted, grabbing my worn, button-adorned jean jacket off the hook and making for the door. As we crossed the lawn from our cabin to the lodge, a posse of babbling girls joined us, always tight on our heels when we could be bothered to attend the festivities. Their high-pitched, anticipatory voices merged into one collective buzz in my ears as my mind wandered back to the shading on my latest sketch.

Freaking talent show.

We clomped up the front steps and tossed open the doors, not bothering to be quiet as we entered the now-silent hall. Cali, a girl a few years older—and fully filled in with curves I couldn't wait to get—was standing at the mic, swaying her hips as she sang.

As far as voices behind the mic went, theirs were actually worth pausing for. I shook my head, knowing the show was over before it even began.

Ding, ding, ding—your winners, folks.

It didn’t help that Cali was unfairly beautiful, her voice curved with that southern-belle twang that made boys stupid. Curtains of sleek black hair framed her face, and generous cleavage peeked through her camp tank. Naturally, every camper with a dick was mesmerized.

Tit-matized, if you will.

The girls too, I noted as I looked around, though most of them glared at the stage with the kind of loathing reserved for the popular girls.

I headed for the back of the room, sighing as the entire posse followed—now silent, eyes glued to the performance. But my gaze scanned the shadowed faces in the crowd until I found him.

Balanced on the back two legs of his chair, Crew had his combat boots propped on the seat in front of him, a lanky arm stretched over the backs of the chairs to either side. A girl was tucked into each—one blonde, one brunette—both watching his face more than the actual performance. Idiots.

But it was the guys in the rows around him I anticipated, and a sneaky smile curved my lips as they teased him. The guys loved driving Crew crazy—using Cali and her appeal to make his temper boil on the regular.

His face, though, was schooled into neutrality, oozing boredom as he flipped his straight, sun-bleached blond hair out of bright hazel eyes.

Eyes that landed on me.

My throat tightened as his gaze slid down, all the way to my Converse—the pair I had signed in silver Sharpie by all of my favorite lead singers and guitarists that year. His lips curled into an aggravating smirk, like he knew a secret he wasn’t supposed to.

I held his gaze when it returned, lifting my chin as I marched for the back row.

Crew turned, kissed the blonde’s forehead, but his eyes stayed glued to me until he’d have to crane his neck.

Relief washed over me when he finally turned back to his sister instead.

Crew’s scrutiny carried a searing weight, branding my skin.

Older boys were trouble.

And Crew was the worst of them.

He’d always held attention—a silent dominance radiating from every inch of him—but this summer, he wasn’t just a boy anymore.

It wasn’t his now-towering height, or even that low voice that caught my attention when he arrived. It was the way his arms had corded with muscle, veins pronounced. And then the asshole had to play every sport with his shirt off, casually tucked in his waistband instead of actually covering the lean muscles of his body.

I had been spellbound.

An uncomfortable, fluttering heat filled my belly.

And he freaking knew it.

All of the girls were entranced by him and his pack of mischief-wreaking wolves.

The crowd’s applause jerked my gaze from the back of his head to Cali as she beamed, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder.

Her brother didn’t bother clapping as she scampered down the stage, but his eyes were trained daggers on her boyfriend as he settled beside her in the row in front of him.

I snorted.

But when Crew turned toward the sound, I locked my gaze on Shay and Katie, pretending to be held rapt by their conversation.