Page 48 of Bound By Song (Evie Quad Omegaverse #1)

BLAISE

S he’s hiding something.

The way Eviana twitches every time I push a little too far, the way her hands fidget like she’s holding herself back – it’s a dead giveaway.

Xar would probably say I’m being pushy, but I can’t help it.

She’s interesting, and it’s not often you meet someone who keeps their cards so close to their chest.

The storm’s still roaring, and the house is…well, let’s call it “charmingly rustic.”

This morning, the kettle whistles faintly from the kitchen where Eviana’s busying herself, but I’ve never been good at sitting still.

I wander out of the sitting room, ignoring Xar’s pointed glance. I’m not going far, just…exploring.

The farmhouse isn’t huge, but every corner of it seems packed with little pieces of her.

Sketchbooks stacked by the window. Paint splatters on the table.

A couple of crumpled Post-it notes shoved into a jar, all with scribbles I can’t quite make out.

She acts like she doesn’t create much, but this place says otherwise.

Then I find a door.

It’s tucked away in the hallway, half-hidden behind an old coat stand. If I hadn’t been looking for something to distract myself, I wouldn’t have noticed it.

The handle sticks when I try to turn it. Locked, maybe. But when I push harder, it gives way with a creak that practically screams you’re snooping .

I glance over my shoulder, but the sound of the kettle still hissing reassures me I’ve got time. Besides, if I’m caught, I’ll just flash a smile and play dumb. Works every time.

The door opens to reveal a staircase leading down, dimly lit by a single bulb which must be battery operated…that, or the power’s back on. It’s colder here, the air heavier. My boots echo softly against the wooden steps as I descend, curiosity tugging me forward.

At the bottom of the stairs, I see it.

A recording studio.

It’s small but perfect. Acoustic panels line the walls, and the floors are covered with mismatched rugs that somehow work.

There’s a mic stand in the centre, an old upright piano against one wall, and shelves stacked with equipment.

But the real giveaway is the laptop on the desk, its screen lit up with a logo I know all too well: Honey .

“Bloody hell,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair.

I step closer, scanning the setup. This isn’t some amateur hobbyist’s corner – this is professional . A well-loved guitar leans against the wall, and the notebook on the desk is filled with lyrics. Lyrics I’ve heard before.

Honey.

I whisper the name again like it’s a spell I’ve just broken.

We’ve been trying to work with her for months. Some faceless, anonymous star who managed to blow up online by writing some of the most hauntingly beautiful music I’ve ever heard. No photo. No name. Nothing. Just a voice and a logo.

And all this time, she’s been right here .

“Blaise?”

I spin so fast I nearly knock the guitar off its stand. She’s there – Eviana – standing at the foot of the stairs like she’s caught me mid-sin. Arms crossed tight. Jaw locked. Her expression is pure fire, but beneath it, I see the cracks. She’s panicking.

And suddenly, I feel her.

Her scent floods the room without warning – sweet apricot turned syrupy and sharp, honeysuckle blooming wide and wild beneath it, like heat caught on rain-slick skin. It’s different now. Richer. Heady. Overripe with something deeper.

Something undeniably omega .

My own body responds before my brain catches up – heart pounding, breath shallowing, heat sliding down my spine. The space between us feels electric, like we’ve stepped onto the edge of something neither of us is ready to name.

“Evie,” I say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be. “You’re her. You’re Honey .”

“Don’t.” Her voice is sharp. A warning.

I should step back. Give her space. But I don’t. I step closer, pulled like gravity.

“Don’t what?” I ask, still stunned. “Be impressed?” I sweep an arm toward the room, the softly glowing monitors, the acoustic panels, the lyrics on the walls. “This is incredible, Eviana. You?—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she cuts in. But this time, the edge is thinner. Cracking.

Her cheeks are flushed now, her breathing uneven. I wonder if she feels it too – that undercurrent. That pull. I lower my voice without meaning to, trying to cut through her walls without shattering her.

“Why not?”

She looks away, arms drawing tighter around herself like she’s holding something in. Like she’s afraid of what might spill out if she doesn’t.

“Because it’s not who I am. It’s just something I do. I did. Something I kept to myself.”

“But it’s not just something.” I gesture around us. “Evie, this whole space? This music? It’s you. It’s honest. It’s raw. It’s?—”

I stop. Because her scent shifts again – sharper now, dizzying – and my thoughts scatter.

“You don’t get it.” Her voice is low now. Shaky. “Honey was safe because no one knew it was me. The moment people know, they judge. They pick you apart. They decide if you’re worthy. And they never let you forget it.”

I blink. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

She lifts her chin, defiant even in her fear. “Aren’t you?”

“No,” I say, gentler now. “Evie, I’m standing here in awe of you. I’m not judging you. I’m trying to understand why you’re acting like being talented – brilliant, even – is something to be ashamed of.”

Her laugh is soft. Bitter. “You’ve spent your whole life in the spotlight, Blaise. You chose that. I didn’t.”

That hits something deep. I nod slowly. “Okay. Fair. But hiding doesn’t make you safer – it just makes you smaller. And that’s not you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I’m trying to,” I say quietly. “If you’d let me.”

Her breath hitches. And that’s when she looks at me.

Really looks at me.

And we’re too close. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off her skin. Close enough that if I reached out, just a little?—

Her lips part like she might speak, or maybe like she’s trying to breathe through the tension coiling between us. My gaze drops – just for a second – to her mouth.

Fuck.

“I can’t,” she whispers. “Not yet.”

And that’s the moment. The one that settles it for me. I could push. I want to. But not like this.

I step back, slow, hands raised in surrender. “Alright. I won’t push.”

Her eyes widen slightly. She wasn’t expecting that.

“For now,” I add, with a crooked half-smile.

And there – just barely – a flicker of warmth. The tiniest tug at the corner of her lips. But she turns before it can bloom, feet quiet on the stairs as she disappears, scent trailing behind her like smoke and summer, footsteps as silent as snowfall.

The storm outside has nothing on what just passed between us.

I linger.

The room still hums with her. Her presence is stitched into the lyrics, the knobs on the mixing desk, the slight wear in the floorboards from pacing. This isn’t a hobby. It’s her heartbeat.

I want to be loud.

Her words echo in my head. Doesn’t she realise how loud, how heard and seen she is when she’s performing as Honey? The real Evie shines through then, and she’s breathtaking to behold.

She’s spent so long hiding her voice, she doesn’t even realise it’s the most powerful thing about her.

I exhale, rubbing the back of my neck as I head upstairs, my boots creaking softly on the wooden steps.

When I step into the lounge, Eviana is already curled up in her nest, the blankets pulled tight around her shoulders like a shield.

Xar is sitting near the fire, his expression unreadable but his focus unmistakably on her.

Dane’s stretched out on the sofa, flipping through another one of the old books, but his dark eyes flick to me the moment I enter.

Xar raises an eyebrow, his tone sharp. “Find anything interesting?”

I shrug, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Oh, you know. Just a state-of-the-art recording studio in the basement. No big deal.”

Eviana’s shoulders tense immediately, her gaze snapping to me.

“Blaise,” she warns, her voice low and tight.

I grin at her, ignoring Xar’s questioning look. “Relax, love. I’m just saying, it’s impressive. You’re impressive.”

“Drop it,” she snaps, pulling the blankets tighter around herself.

Xar frowns, glancing between us. “A recording studio?”

I nod, still grinning. “Yep. And not just any studio. It’s pro-level . You wouldn’t believe the setup she’s got down there. Oh, and here’s the best part! She’s not just a musician. She’s Honey .”

Xar’s brow furrows, the sharpness in his gaze intensifying as he glances between the two of us. “What’s he talking about, Eviana?”

Eviana’s shoulders stiffen, her gaze snapping to mine, but I don’t give her the chance to shut this down.

“She’s Honey ,” I say, the grin spreading across my face. “The one everyone’s been raving about online. The one who’s been driving producers mad trying to figure out where the hell she is. The one we’ve been desperately trying to work with. That Honey.”

Xar’s eyebrows shoot up, his sharp gaze narrowing on her. Dane straightens slightly, his quiet attention locked onto her.

“Seriously?” Dane asks, his voice low and steady.

Xar looks back at her, his expression unreadable. “Is it true?”

She hesitates, her gaze darting between the three of us. Finally, she sighs, her shoulders sagging slightly. “Yes. It’s true. But it’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” I repeat, unable to help myself. “Eviana, you’ve written some of the most incredible music I’ve ever heard in my life! It’s a huge deal! People would sell their souls to be half as talented as you are.”

She glares at me, her cheeks flushing. “I don’t want people to know it’s me,” she snaps. “That’s the whole point. So thanks for outing me, arsehole.”

But I can’t let this go. “Do you even realise how many people your music has touched? How many people are?—”

“Stop,” she interrupts, her voice sharp. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

The room falls silent, the weight of her words settling between us.