Page 19 of Bound By Song (Evie Quad Omegaverse #1)
XAR
I didn’t sleep last night.
Didn’t even try.
The music wouldn’t let me.
It’s been months since I felt this kind of drive, this raw, clawing need to get something out of my system and onto the page.
Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was her.
The way she looked at me like she wasn’t sure whether to push me away or let me in.
The way her voice wavered when she said our names, like she was testing how they felt in her mouth.
Evie.
I don’t know what she’s doing to me, but I can’t stop thinking about her.
She got the gift yesterday. We know she got it. The tracking said it was delivered in the afternoon. Which means she’s had almost twenty-four hours to open it, to read our note, to see our numbers.
And still – nothing.
No text. No call. Not even a message to say fuck off and leave me alone .
I should have expected this. Hell, I did expect it. She’s fighting this, just like she’s fighting us. But knowing that doesn’t make it any less frustrating.
My fingers tighten around my pen, the notepad beneath my hand already covered in half-scribbled lyrics.
I don’t remember the last time I wrote like this.
It’s different when it’s just me. When I don’t have to think about what will fit with the others, when I don’t have to shape something into what the label expects from us. This is something else – something raw, something I don’t even know how to put into words yet.
But the second my pen touches the page again, the words flow out like they were already there, waiting.
I exhale sharply, pressing the heel of my hand against my eyes.
Fuck.
I push back from the desk, standing abruptly, my chair scraping against the wooden floor of the cottage’s tiny writing space. The notepad stares up at me, taunting.
I need a break.
I need a distraction.
I need to go to her .
My jaw clenches as I push that last thought away. It’s too soon. We agreed to give her space. To let her come to us.
But fuck, it’s hard.
I grab my guitar instead, letting the weight of it settle against me. My hands move automatically, fingers finding the right frets before I’ve even decided what I’m playing.
The melody spills out, dark and steady, something that matches the low hum of frustration in my chest. I don’t even realise I’m shaping the lyrics until my mouth opens, and the words slip free in a rough murmur.
“You can run, but I’ll still feel it
That pulse in your blood, calling me home
You can hide, but I still hear it
Your silence isn’t quiet when I know what it means.”
The sound fills the room, but it doesn’t feel like enough.
I need the drums, the bass. I need the weight behind it, the energy that only comes when we’re all in sync, when it’s real.
Before I can think better of it, I’m out the door, heading toward the studio.
Dane and Blaise are already there.
Dane’s behind the kit, sticks twirling absently in his hands, his foot tapping out a slow rhythm against the bass pedal. Blaise is perched on the edge of the sofa, his favourite bass in his lap, absently plucking a few notes.
They both look up when I walk in.
Dane takes one look at me and smirks. “You look like shit.”
“Didn’t sleep.” I cross the room, grabbing a spare mic stand and setting it up. “Got something, though.”
Blaise raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything, just shifts, adjusting his grip on his guitar like he’s ready to follow wherever I lead.
I nod at Dane. “Give me something slow to start. Let it build.”
He taps out a simple pattern, keeping it low, the deep thud of the kick drum setting the foundation. Blaise listens for a second, then slides in, his bass adding depth.
I close my eyes, adjusting the mic, letting the music wrap around me before I let the words spill out.
It’s rough, raw, but the second I start singing, I feel it.
And judging by the way Blaise and Dane fall into step with me, they feel it too.
It’s the first time in months that we’ve played something that feels real, and now we’ve managed it for two days running. I know it’s because of her.
And it gives me hope that we might just be able to mend this rift between us.