Page 55 of Bound By Song (Evie Quad Omegaverse #1)

EVIANA

A fter Dane leaves, the room feels too quiet.

Not empty, exactly – just…quieter without his steady presence anchoring me. He didn’t say where he was going, just kissed the top of my head again and muttered something about needing to be “cracking on.” But the weight in his eyes told me enough. The nest. He’s gone to make good on his promise.

I should be nervous. The conversation we just had stripped me raw. But instead of shame or panic, all I feel is this strange, delicate calm. Like something inside me finally let go of the breath it’s been holding since I was a teenager.

I tuck my legs up under me and sip from the same mug of tea that’s long gone cold.

“Alright, angel,” Blaise says as he strolls into the lounge, stretching his arms over his head like he’s just woken up from the best nap of his life. “You look like you need a distraction.”

I lift an eyebrow. “From what?”

He shrugs dramatically. “Your rapidly approaching heat. Or the heavy existential fog of being scent-matched to three devastatingly handsome musicians. Either or.”

I snort, shaking my head. “Devastatingly handsome, huh?”

He grins, grabbing a cloth bag from the bookshelf. “Your words, not mine. Now…Scrabble?”

I blink. “Seriously?”

“Deadly serious. You, me, and a chance to humiliate me in a game that relies heavily on actual intelligence. Come on, honeybee, I’m giving you an easy win.”

I smirk despite myself and scoot forward. “You’re going to regret this.”

He sets up the board between us, tongue poking between his teeth as he arranges the tiles with more focus than I expected.

It turns out I’m very, very good at Scrabble. And Blaise is...not.

“Is ‘snorfle’ a word?” he asks for the third time, frowning at his letters.

“Not unless you’re a cartoon moose.”

He groans, collapsing dramatically onto a pillow. “I was promised victory. This is betrayal.”

“You were never promised victory,” I say, trying not to laugh. “You literally said I’d humiliate you.”

“Yeah, but I thought that was flirting.”

I shake my head but my cheeks warm. The game continues, him growing more ridiculous with each turn, me biting back laughter more often than not.

After I spell out eviscerate on a triple word score, building on Blaise’s paltry rat , Blaise stares at me in genuine horror.

“Okay,” he says, slowly. “Note to self: never get on your bad side.”

“I thought that was obvious.”

He chuckles, gathering his discarded tiles. “Alright, Scrabble queen. While I nurse my wounded pride – tell me something. You ever left this place? Even for a visit or a holiday elsewhere?”

I shake my head. “Sort of. If going into town for supplies counts and racing straight back home again.”

“It doesn’t,” he says, then adds in a gentler tone, “I figured. You’ve got that small-town stubbornness. The kind you don’t learn in a city.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And you would know?”

Blaise shrugs, stretching out again. “I grew up on a farm. Couple hours north. Sheep, chickens, mud...more mud. You wouldn’t believe how many creative uses there are for baling twine when you’re bored enough.”

I blink at him. “I...didn’t expect that.”

“Yeah, well. Don’t let the hair products and eyeliner fool you. I’m not above wrestling a sheep or two.”

I burst out laughing. “Now that’s something I want to see.”

“Careful,” he says, pointing a finger. “I will make that a date.”

Before I can respond, Xar walks in, sleeves already pushed up, a clean dish towel slung over one shoulder.

“Dinner?” he asks, heading straight for the kitchen.

“I’ll help,” I say, getting up.

“You don’t have to,” Xar replies, already halfway to the fridge.

I pause, then pout. “Do you not want me to help?”

He turns, blinking at me. “That’s not what I meant.”

I cross my arms. “Feels like it.”

He studies me for a moment, brow furrowing. “Do you actually want to cook, or do you feel like you have to?”

That stops me.

“I...want to,” I admit, quieter now. “I don’t feel obliged. I just...I like doing things with you. With all of you. I want to help. I want to be with you.”

Xar’s expression softens. “Alright, then.” He tosses me an apron. “You’re on vegetable duty, sous chef.”

Blaise groans. “Do I have to chop things too?”

“No,” Xar says dryly. “You can set the table and not burn the house down.”

“Unreasonable,” Blaise mutters, but he’s smiling as he gets to his feet.

And just like that, the kitchen fills with movement – light and laughter and clinking glass and the sizzle of garlic hitting the pan. It’s the most normal, domestic thing I’ve done in years. I don’t want it to end.

Blaise makes it approximately three minutes before he becomes a hazard.

He clatters the silverware onto the table in dramatic flourishes, whistles off-key, and hums what might be a funeral dirge while placing the placemats – incorrectly – upside down.

“Blaise,” Xar warns, not even looking up from the chopping board.

“Yes, chef?”

“That is the third time you’ve dropped a fork. And the spoons go on the right .”

“I’m going for an abstract placement. Very avant-garde.”

“Out.”

Blaise gasps, scandalised. “You’re kicking me out of the kitchen?”

Xar finally turns, expression perfectly deadpan. “I’m saving the kitchen. Leave. Sit. Play with the chickens. Go smell a candle. I don’t care.”

Blaise turns to me and presses a hand to his chest like he’s just been stabbed. “You see what I endure?”

I grin. “You dropped a fork into the sink. Twice.”

“It was slippery!” he cries, backing out of the room. “Don’t fall for his quiet charm, Evie. He’s a kitchen tyrant!”

Xar closes the fridge with one hip and sighs. “He says that like it’s a bad thing.”

Once Blaise is gone, the kitchen quiets again – just the simmer of something on the stove and the steady rhythm of my chopping beside Xar’s.

It feels...easy.

“I don’t mind the way you are in here,” I say eventually, glancing up at him. “Focused. Commanding.”

His lip quirks, and he raises an eyebrow. “Commanding, huh?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

I nudge him with my elbow. “You really enjoy this, don’t you?”

“Cooking?” He nods. “Yeah. Always have. It’s something about creating something with your hands. Knowing how to layer the right flavours. Getting it just right. But cooking for my omega? Something else entirely.”

“It’s like music,” I say, before I can stop myself.

He looks over at me, eyes softening. “Exactly like that.”

We go quiet for a beat, comfortable again. My hands move automatically, peeling carrots, slicing onions. I notice the way his knuckles brush mine now and then, deliberate but never invasive.

“You know,” he says, glancing sidelong at me as he stirs something in the pan, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Blaise that relaxed. Not with anyone.”

I blink. “Really?”

“Really.” Xar leans on the counter, facing me more fully.

“You bring something out of him. Out of all of us. It’s like…

” He pauses, searching for the word. “We’ve been playing the same song for years.

But now you’re here, and suddenly we’re writing something new.

Did you know, he’s not even had a drink since we met you?

Nearly two weeks now. That’s…unheard of for him. ”

My cheeks warm, but I don’t look away. “I like the sound of that.”

He gives me a slow, easy smile – the kind that sits low in his chest and tugs something loose in mine.

“Me too.”

“But is Blaise ok?”

“I believe he’s getting there. Thanks to you.

I think you’re healing all of us, Evie. And our pack bond.

We were fractured before, on the verge of breaking for good, and none of that feels important now that we’ve found you.

I don’t mean that in a dismissive way, just that finding you has really put my priorities into perspective.

The music and the band don’t matter anywhere near as much as my pack and you do.

And I’m so fucking grateful to you for showing me that. ”

The moment lingers there, soft and full of something unspoken. Then Xar clears his throat, nodding to the cutting board.

“Pass me the onion, would you?”

I hand it over, fingers brushing. And though nothing is said, everything feels a little closer.

A little more real.

Dinner is warm and unhurried.

We eat together in the kitchen, the camping lights low and golden, the table crowded with mismatched dishes and too many mugs. Xar’s food is – unsurprisingly – incredible. He’s not flashy about it, just quietly proud, his eyes flicking toward me every time I hum with pleasure over another bite.

Blaise tells a story about a gig in Berlin where a fan threw their underwear onstage with their phone number stitched into the waistband. Dane just shakes his head and mutters, “Every time,” while I nearly choke on my tea.

It’s easy. Natural.

And for once, I let it be that way.

After the meal, Xar suggests a walk before the weather turns again. The wind has settled into a cold hush, the air sharp but clear.

“I’ll come,” I say, already reaching for my boots.

Blaise gives me a long look as I shrug on my old rain mac. It’s not even waterproof anymore and there’s a rip under the armpit that I carefully try to conceal from knit, knowing he won’t approve. “Is that it?”

“What?”

“That” – he gestures to my jacket like it personally offended him – “is not a coat.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“She says, as her lips turn blue,” he mutters.

Xar chuckles and tosses him a scarf. “Let it go. She’s stubborn.”

“Terrible combination,” Blaise huffs. “Stubborn and adorable.”

“We can warm her up when we come back in, don’t sweat it.”

Blaise’s face lights up with anticipation and mischief at Xar’s suggestion.

We step out into the night, the frost crunching underfoot. The stars are bright above, the storm clouds finally scattered, and everything smells clean and crisp.

We walk slowly, tracing the edge of the fields, my breath puffing white in the air. Blaise kicks at a stone as we pass a low fence and looks over at Xar.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, voice softer now. “About Lena.”