In a large suite at the Savoy hotel, Vic Havoc, bassist of Ashes of Our Youth, was regretting every decision he’d made in the last twenty-four hours. His head feels like Davey was playing a drum solo on his brain — the room feels too bright as he opens his eyes. What fucking happened last night? He remembers being pissed off after the show — Lucy was all over social media flashing her new relationship with the alpha she cheated on him with, and the boys had dragged him out to some pub in Soho. Kellin had declared this was Vic’s chance to finally live like a real rockstar by having a random hook-up. Five years with the same girl didn’t do the rockstar life justice. Not when the band had finally hit their stride playing arena tours. Vic deserved this rite of passage. Even Ben’s hooked up with a groupie! Kellin had insisted before Ben’s lethal stare silenced the brash rockstar.

At the time, he had thought Kellin was right. After all, he is a rockstar, and why the fuck shouldn’t he hook up with a fan? He’s single now — Lucy had made that very clear when she fucked another alpha. If she’d just asked, he would have flown to her, or flown her out — or fuck something. But she threw away five years together for some finance bro’s knot. Just thinking of Lucy again made his head throb, and with a growl, Vic shot out of the bed, rubbing a large hand through his wild crimson hair. Vic needed something to dull the throbbing in his head — and coffee if he was going to function at all today. He’s fully naked, pulling on a pair of discarded sweatpants from the floor to cover himself. The black fabric hangs low on his hips, his tattooed torso on full display as he heads towards the bathroom.

“Fuck me,“ he groans, digging for the aspirin bottle from his Dopp kit. He takes the pill dry, swallowing it down with a perfunctory gulp. He’s never drinking that much again, and he’s never taking advice from Kellin fucking Beckett — he’s lucky he didn’t find himself kidnapped by a fan or with pictures of his dick online. The same couldn’t be said for Mikey after that one fan in Canada they’d all warned him about — poor bastard.

He splashes water on his face; the cool temperature wakes him up. He needed to assess the damage and decide whether he needed Mister Dad to step in. Ben owed him anyway — Vic was the good kid of the group, not causing the same scandal that the disaster twins, Kellin and Mikey, caused. Honey brown eyes flicker to his own reflection — taking stock of the dark circles under his eyes and the bites all over his neck and chest — Damn what the fuck happened? He’s never looked like this even after his and Lucy’s wildest nights together.

But it’s one particular bite — a distinct silvery half-moon scar on his neck — that makes time stop for Vic. No, it couldn’t be. And yet it’s his alpha that replies to his disbelief with a deep rumbling of contentment inside him. He’d been fucking bonded — and he just — let it happen? “This is a bad dream,” he mutters — even as his alpha grumbles that it wasn’t. Vic tries to rationalize that it’s a mistake — but even as he thinks it, there’s a deep tug in his soul that urges him back towards the bed.

Back towards his mate.

“Shit.” His shaking hand scrubs across his face, the surly alpha slowly stalking back into the bedroom — there, in the grey morning light of London, was a figure asleep in his hotel bed, their clothes mixed with his on the ground. Mate his alpha purrs as he approaches the bed. Vic rolls his eyes in response, wishing the damned beast would shut up for a moment. He needed to think, to figure out what the fuck actually happened. Had the person he’d hooked up with bit him as entrapment? Were they planning to blackmail him? Why the fuck did he let them?

Clearly, he’d had his rockstar hook-up, but in truth, he can’t actually remember what happened beyond the fourth round of AMF shots Mikey had insisted on. What a fucking way to start the European leg of the tour. Ben was going to kill him — actually commit homicide — for the damage control he’d need to execute to stave off this scandal. But he needs to know the truth. He needs to see if the person in his bed wore his mark.

Slowly, Vic reaches out, pulling the covers down to expose the sleeping figure’s neck to him. He sucked in a sharp breath at the sight before him; there, plain as day, was the same silver scar surrounded by fresh teeth marks. The sight fills him with a primal sense of satisfaction while his brain revolts.

They’d bonded — both ways.

Fuck

He’s not even twenty-five! How could he be bonded!?

Vic stumbles backwards in shock, tripping over an unfamiliar pair of shoes. He crashes into the coffee table, wincing at the pain as he hits the floor with a loud thud. He doesn’t look towards the bed to see if the noise woke his guest up. No, instead, he lies there, staring up at the ceiling, resigned to his fate. “I’m so screwed,” he groans. “What the fuck am I gonna do now?”