Cyrus Steele

The bass rattled the ground like an earthquake. Smoke rolled across the stage, and Cyrus Steele stood at the edge of it, shirtless under black leather, chest rising and falling, throat raw. He gripped the mic like it owed him something, jaw tight, sweat dripping from his temples. The first guitar riff of “Velvet Temptation” wailed through the amps, and the crowd exploded. He sang like a man on fire. His voice was all gravel and heat—cutting, biting, pleading. The crowd roared with every line, arms thrown into the air, lights flashing off cell phones, people losing their damn minds. But Cyrus didn’t hear any of it. Halfway through the second verse, his eyes locked onto a figure in the center of the crowd. And everything else disappeared.

There they were standing in the crowd. The one face he hadn’t seen in years. The one that shattered him before he had anything to give. The reason half the lyrics in this song even existed.

CraveU user.

His stomach dropped like a stone. He tripped on the next lyric, barely covering it. His voice cracked slightly—just enough for his bandmates to glance over. Slade raised a brow but didn’t miss a beat. Ezra smirked behind his bass. Roxy, drumming like a war goddess, didn’t flinch. But Cyrus felt the heat crawl up his neck as the chorus closed in. He forced his voice back into the zone, belting out the hook with his chest wide open, but his gaze kept drifting back to that spot in the crowd. They were still there. Eyes locked. Unreadable expression. Fuck. The final note rang out, and the lights dimmed. Applause thundered around him, but Cyrus couldn’t breathe.

Backstage, he stormed into the dressing tent, tearing a water bottle open and downing half of it in seconds. “What the fuck was that?” he snapped, pacing. “What the actual—how the hell are they here?” Slade leaned against the side of the couch, arms crossed, grinning. “Who? The ghost that haunts all your songs?”

“Don’t start with me right now.”

“You looked like you saw the devil mid-verse,” Ezra added, flopping onto the chair with his bass still hanging off his shoulder. “Kinda hot, honestly.” Cyrus shoved a hand through his hair. “I can’t do this. Not tonight. Not here.” Roxy kicked open a beer and tossed it toward him. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling—”

“Turn around, jackass,” Slade muttered. Cyrus froze. His blood ran cold. Then he turned. There they were. CraveU user. Standing just inside the tent flap, holding a bouquet of crushed but clearly intentional flowers. Cyrus couldn’t move. He swallowed hard. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”