Page 50 of Bound By Song (Evie Quad Omegaverse #1)

XAR

T he storm is still raging outside, wind battering the walls and howling against the windows, but in here, the house feels calm. Not silent – never that, not with Blaise – but there’s a different energy now. Softer. Tentative. Maybe even hopeful.

Eviana is in the kitchen, moving between the counter and the stove with careful precision.

Dane’s nearby, helping her with something – probably tea, maybe food – but from where I stand in the doorway, it’s clear she’s keeping her distance.

Not physically, exactly. Emotionally. Her shoulders are tight, her movements clipped, like she’s running on instinct and fraying at the edges.

And I get it.

She just laid herself bare with that song. Just let us see a part of her she’s kept locked up tighter than a vault. Honey. We’d been chasing that name for months, never guessing the woman behind it had already slipped into our lives under a different one.

And now that we know?

Now that I know ?

It’s hard not to be overwhelmed. Her voice wrecked me. That softness. That strength. The way it cracked open something inside me and stitched it back together in the same breath.

But I can’t let her see that. Can’t let her think this changes everything. Can’t let her believe we only want her because of her voice.

Because what I want is all of her. The fire. The fear. The way she said she dreams of being loud. I want that for her. I want her – not her talent. Not the mystery. Just her.

Behind me, Blaise slouches in one of the kitchen chairs, drumming his fingers on the table like he’s never known patience a day in his life.

“She’s been quiet,” he mutters, nodding toward the stove. “You think I pushed too hard again?”

“You usually do,” I say evenly.

He grins, unbothered. “Didn’t hear you complaining when she started singing.”

I don’t answer. Instead, I watch as she reaches for a stack of plates, her hands steady now, more sure of herself in this small act of domesticity than she was with a guitar in her hands. That’s what tells me everything I need to know – she’s trying. Still guarded, but trying.

Dane catches my eye across the room and gives a barely perceptible nod. He sees it too.

“Is she cooking?” Blaise asks, pushing to his feet.

“Looks like it,” I say. “Let’s go eat.”

We gather around the kitchen table, steam rising from mismatched mugs and a small spread of food Eviana’s put together – bread, butter, soup from a tin, and a tray of cakes that look delicious. It’s not much, but it feels like more than enough.

“Thanks, honeybee,” Blaise says cheerfully, already helping himself to the cake. Eviana doesn’t respond, but the corners of her mouth twitch, just barely.

Dane joins us, quiet as ever, handing her a mug and then sitting at her side, close but not crowding her. I keep my place across from her, letting her have space. But I don’t stop watching her – can’t.

Even in silence, she’s doing . Stirring, pouring, tidying, moving like if she stops, something in her might break. Her scent’s more settled now, but there’s still a war behind her eyes. A kind of emotional hangover from everything she’s just given us.

We eat, talk lightly. The usual ribbing between me and Blaise. Dane throwing in the occasional deadpan comment that somehow lands harder than anything we say. Eviana doesn’t add much, but she listens. That alone feels like a victory.

Afterwards, she retreats to the lounge again, carrying a few of the blankets with her. Blaise disappears somewhere, grumbling about string tension and needing to “fix the acoustic situation,” and Dane lingers in the kitchen to clean up.

I follow her.

Back in the lounge, the fire’s burned lower, but it still casts enough warmth for the room to feel safe. Eviana’s rearranging her nest again – slow, deliberate movements that look like ritual. I watch from the shadows, careful not to make her feel seen in the wrong way.

“You’re making it more comfortable,” I say quietly.

She freezes, then glances over. “What?”

“The nest,” I clarify, nodding toward it. “You’re adding to it.”

She shrugs, avoiding my eyes. “I just...wanted it to feel warmer. That’s all.”

I nod. “That’s good. You should make it yours. As much as you need to.”

She doesn’t respond, but her movements slow. Then, after a beat, she turns slightly and hesitates – really hesitates – before reaching for one of the blankets.

“Are you cold?” she asks abruptly.

I blink. “No, I’m fine.”

Still, she holds the blanket out to me – awkward, uncertain, but genuine. Like she’s offering something far bigger than fabric.

“Here,” she mumbles. “You can...have this. If you want to.”

I take it slowly, letting it settle across my lap. “Thanks.”

She pulls the rest of the blankets tighter around herself, curling into her space again.

But this time, her eyes flick to me – not wary, just checking.

Like she’s making sure I’m comfortable too.

I give her a smile and a nod of approval, tucking the blanket around myself, and something in her eyes lights up.

“I’m not saying you can’t handle yourself,” I say softly. “But you don’t have to. Not anymore.”

Her eyes narrow, shoulders tensing. “I’ve been doing fine on my own.”

“Have you?” I ask gently.

She doesn’t answer, but I see it – the crack. The way her fingers twist in the edge of a blanket like she’s holding herself together.

“You’ve been surviving,” I continue. “Not living. Getting through one moment at a time. And maybe that’s become so normal, it feels fine. But it’s not. It’s exhausting. And you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

She looks away. “It’s not that simple.”

“It could be.”

A beat. Then a breath.

“Maybe,” she murmurs.

We fall quiet again. Just the fire crackling, the weight of the storm still pressing against the house, but unable to reach us in here.

Her gesture was small – but to me, it says everything.

She’s still afraid. Still closed off. But she’s shifting. Letting us in, inch by inch.

And for tonight, that’s enough.