Page 25 of Bound By Song (Evie Quad Omegaverse #1)

EVIANA

T he rain is starting to come down harder now, steady and relentless against the windows.

It’s the kind of weather that makes the house feel colder than it already is, the wind howling through the cracks in the walls.

I can feel the weight of it in my bones, the tension settling deeper into my shoulders as I move through the house, trying to make it feel a little more secure.

This week, since the guys barreled their way into my life, has been a blur of exhaustion, the kind that seeps into your body and doesn’t seem to leave.

I haven’t been able to do much of anything, let alone the work around here I was planning on.

Mostly, I’ve been curled up in bed or tucked up on the sofa, now wrapped in the new blanket the guys sent to me.

Secretly, I love it. The only thing that would make the gift better, is if it was drenched in their scents – which is a stupid omega thought, because I don’t even know what they smell like.

They might smell horrible for all I know.

But I bet they don’t.

I guess I should feel better by now, but I don’t. My body aches, my head’s been heavy, and every time I move, it feels like I’m dragging the weight of the world along with me.

But the messages from the guys – those have been a small reprieve. I catch myself smiling at their words, even when the wind outside feels like it could tear the whole place apart. Their texts are like a lifeline, going on late into the night, each beep reminding me that I’m not alone.

It’s silly, maybe, but it’s been nice to hear from them, to know they’re thinking about me, especially with my own sisters too busy to reach out much. We probably only speak a couple of times a month usually, but it feels like it’s been even longer than that lately.

First things first – the locks.

I pull out the small toolkit I keep tucked away under the kitchen sink, the one I’ve used for years to patch up all the little things the farmhouse needs.

It’s a routine, almost meditative. Tighten this, adjust that.

The doorframe on the backdoor’s been shifting, so I spend extra time making sure the bolts are secure.

There’s no sense in having a loose lock when there’s a storm brewing outside.

My hands shake a little as I work, the tension still creeping up my spine from earlier. I try to shake it off. I have work to do.

The chickens need feeding next. It’s always the small tasks that make me feel grounded.

The world might be falling apart around me, but the animals need me.

It wouldn’t hurt to check the perimeter either.

I have deterrents set up on the land to keep predators away from the chickens, but maybe they’ll come in handy for keeping unwanted visitors away too.

Alphas are omegas’ predators, just like the foxes are for my chickens.

I shiver as I make my way to the back door, pulling on my wellington boots and stepping into the rain, the droplets hitting my skin like a thousand tiny needles, as I head out to the shed.

The chickens are waiting in their nearby coop, clucking impatiently, so I toss their feed into the trough, watching them scramble for it.

But even as I do the mundane things, my thoughts drift back to them.

The alphas.

They’re still on my mind, like a thorn I can’t quite dislodge. I know I should ignore them – forget about them – but there’s something about the way they looked at me, the way they refused to give up, that keeps me on edge.

I have to admit it’s been nice messaging them. Less lonely. And I guess they’re not as big and bad and scary as I first thought.

I make my way back to the porch, the wind kicking up, and I can’t help but sigh when I see the state of it. The wood is old, the nails rusted. It needs fixing – again.

I kneel down to assess the damage caused by the alpha who put his foot through it – I don’t know which it was, though I suspect that maybe it was Dane because he’s the largest of the three of them – my fingers pressing into the rotting wood, the icy wetness seeping through my fingers down to my bones.

My breath catches. There’s no way I can do this myself.

But I have to.

I pull my phone from my pocket, the familiar weight of it comforting in my palm. I briefly consider texting the guys. A simple message, just to ask if they could help with fixing the porch like they originally offered…

But I can’t bring myself to do it.

They’ve already given me enough, and I won’t be the one to keep asking. No matter how much the storm outside makes it feel like the whole world is closing in on me, I’ll face it alone.

I grab the hammer from the tool belt at my side, starting to pull up the nails one by one, working through the frustration and the fear in my gut. This is what I do – I fix things. It’s the only way I can make this place bearable, the only way to stop myself from feeling completely overwhelmed.

I lift the hammer, ready to drive the nail back into place, when I hear it.

The drip.

My stomach tightens, and I look up.

The porch is leaking.

Great .

I try to ignore the rising panic in my chest, but it’s no use. Tears fill my eyes and I debate just letting them fall. Crumbling and just letting myself have a minute to fall apart as quickly as the house around me seems to be.

Crying never solves anything, girls. Crying won’t keep you safe or save you.

Of course the one time I consider having a brief pity party, Grams’ voice in my head stops me. Can’t even wallow in peace without her haunting me.

The storm is only getting worse, and if I don’t fix the leak soon, the water’s going to ruin everything. So instead of crying, I wipe my eyes with the back of my icy cold hands and stand up. I wish I’d worn gloves now but I don’t even know if I have any. Maybe lying round somewhere, who knows.

I really should message them, maybe ask them to come fix the roof. It’s starting to sag with all this rain, and I know they’d be here in an instant. But the thought of calling them, of letting them back into my space...it feels wrong.

I don’t want them to think they can just come and fix everything for me.

Instead, I push the thought away. I have to handle it myself.

I glance at the ladder leaning against the side of the house. I’ve always hated heights. Fell out of a tree when we were six or seven and Grams was too scared to take me to hospital, and so I just had to live with the pain of what I now suspect was a broken arm. Never been too keen since that.

I’ve done my best to avoid them since then, but now there’s no choice. But I’ve never been good at asking for help either, and I sure as hell am not calling anyone to fix this for me.

I know what I have to do.

With a deep breath, I grab the ladder, dragging it across the soggy ground, fighting the wind as it threatens to knock me off balance.

I set it up beneath the roofline, the top of the ladder scraping against the wood.

I take advantage of the boggy ground underfoot and try to wedge the feet of the ladder into the soft mud a little, hoping it can help anchor me against the elements.

The wind bites at my skin, and my heart races, manifesting as a solid lump of fear in my throat.

I know this is stupid. But I climb anyway, pushing aside my fear.

Each step feels like it takes forever. The higher I go, the tighter the knot in my chest becomes. But I have to do this. I can’t wait for someone else to do it.

No one is ever going to fix your problems for you, girls.

When I finally reach the roof, I exhale, the fear still gnawing at the edges of my thoughts. I lean over to inspect the damage, my hands trembling as I reach for the shingles.

And then, suddenly, I hear it.

A voice – angry, gruff, demanding.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I freeze.

My heart leaps into my throat as I twist around, my foot slipping.

Oh no.

The ladder tilts, my body jerking to the side, and I start to fall. My breath catches, panic surging through me as I try to reach for something, anything, to stop myself from hitting the ground.