Page 59 of Bound By Song (Evie Quad Omegaverse #1)

XAR

T he moment her body goes slack, Blaise is there to catch her.

His arms curve around her like it’s instinct. Like there was never any chance he’d let her fall. He draws her into him so gently, so naturally, it’s like his body knew what to do before his brain even caught up.

He lowers her into the nest, one arm still looped around her back, the other pulling the blankets up around her shoulders.

Her breath evens out almost instantly, her body curling into the warmth like she’s been waiting for this permission to rest. The tension bleeds out of her in soft, invisible threads.

She fought so hard.

And still, she lost.

I exhale slowly. The weight of it presses into my chest like lead. This was inevitable – her body’s still healing from heat, her nervous system shot from keeping us all at arm’s length. But this doesn’t feel like relief. It feels like a surrender she never wanted to give.

Blaise’s gaze flicks to mine as he finishes tucking the blanket around her like it’s something sacred.

“She’s done,” he murmurs. His voice is low, reverent. “She won’t wake up for a while.”

I nod once. “Stay with her.”

There’s no hesitation. Of course he will.

Evie won’t want to wake up alone – she won’t say it, maybe can’t, but we all know. She needs to be held .

Needs to know someone is watching the door.

I sigh, dragging a hand through my hair. “Why does she have to be so damn stubborn?”

Blaise’s mouth quirks, but his eyes stay on her. “We wouldn’t love her if she wasn’t.”

I freeze.

Love .

He says it like it’s already decided. Like it was never even a question.

And maybe it wasn’t – not for him.

The truth of it settles between us like gravity.

Blaise… loves her.

That cocky bastard with a chip on his shoulder the size of London has fallen completely under her spell.

I can see it now in the softness of his touch, the calm in his eyes.

There’s a depth to him I’ve never seen before.

A steadiness. Not to mention his apology and the complete shift in his behaviour.

It’s not an act. He’s a changed man. Thanks to her.

I no longer want to punch him every time I look at him.

That’s how I know it’s real.

I glance down at her, at the little crease between her brows even in sleep, and feel something pull tight in my chest. I’ve known since the first moment I saw her that she was going to change everything.

But I didn’t expect her to change me . To change us. Our pack. For the better.

I see it in Dane, too – the way he never stops tracking her movements, the quiet care he pours into everything he does for her. And Blaise…Blaise is no longer playing games. He’s here. He’s present .

And me?

I’ve been falling this whole time.

Falling for her fire. Her fight. Her walls and her jagged edges and the softness she tries so hard to bury. Her scent is already soaked into my skin. Her laugh lives somewhere behind my ribs. She frustrates the hell out of me – but I’d burn the whole world down if it meant keeping her safe.

She’s ours.

And god help anyone who tries to take her away.

I push to my feet and step out of the room.

Dane is waiting, leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest. His expression is unreadable, but the sharpness in his gaze tells me he heard everything. He doesn’t miss much.

“She’s still fighting,” I tell him.

Dane’s jaw ticks. “Of course she is. I think it’s nerves. Less about her omega and more about her…inexperience.”

I scrub a hand through my hair, tension thrumming beneath my skin. “She doesn’t trust it. Any of it. She thinks if she gives in, she won’t get back out.”

“She won’t,” Dane says simply. “Not the same.”

He’s right. We all know it. Once an omega lets herself belong, once she sinks into it, there’s no undoing it. She can claw at the edges all she wants, but she’ll never be the same as she was before.

“Then we wait,” I say, voice low. “She’s exhausted, but when she wakes up, she’s going to fight us all over again.”

Dane exhales slowly, rubbing at his jaw. “She’s ours, Xar.”

Dane’s words hang in the air, unshakable as stone.

She’s ours.

I don’t argue, because I know it’s true. But knowing it and having her accept it are two different things entirely. I honestly thought we were making progress with this.

Dane pushes off the wall, rolling his shoulders like the weight of the conversation is settling into his muscles. “She’s pushing now, but when her full heat hits, she won’t be able to.”

I nod, my jaw tightening. “We need to be ready.”

Because this? This was only the beginning.

The warning signs. A deep, residual craving, her instincts still tangled up in the aftermath of something her body isn’t done with yet.

When the next wave hits – when she fully crashes into heat – she won’t be able to fight it, no matter how much she wants to.

Dane runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “She needs to eat. Hydrate. We have a short window before her body drags her under again.”

“She won’t take it from us easily,” I mutter.

“She doesn’t have to,” Dane says. “We make it easy. Make it natural.”

I glance back towards the door. “I don’t think Blaise will get her to eat something. She likes fighting him.”

Dane hums in agreement, then hesitates. “But it’s not just the physical.”

No. It never is.

She needs more than just food and water. She needs comfort. Safety. Touch.

She needs to wake up and not immediately feel trapped. She needs to know she still has a choice – even when every instinct inside her is screaming that she doesn’t.

Dane exhales, low and slow, almost thoughtful. Then, so softly I almost miss it, he hums a few quiet notes under his breath.

A melody. Something unfinished.

I glance at him. “What’s that?”

He pauses, like he hadn’t meant to let it slip. “Something I was working on.”

I arch a brow. “Something new?”

Dane hesitates, then nods. “Came to me earlier. Just a few beats.”

I let the sound settle in my head, rolling the notes over in my mind. It’s raw, unpolished – but something about it feels right.

The weight in my chest shifts, something slotting into place.

Music.

It’s always been our tether, the one thing that connects us no matter what else is going on. And Evie – she may fight everything else, but music isn’t something she has to resist. It doesn’t demand anything from her.

“We could play for her,” I say, the idea forming as I speak it aloud. “When she wakes up. Give her something familiar to hold onto.”

Dane’s eyes flick to me, assessing. Then, slowly, he nods. “It could help.”

Right now, she needs all the help she can get.

Dane doesn’t hesitate. He claps me on the shoulder, firm and certain. “I’ll sort food.”

I nod. “I’ll get a couple of instruments, bring them to the nest.”

We don’t waste time. The moment Evie wakes, she’ll be on edge again, and if we’re not ready – if we push too hard – she’ll dig her heels in deeper.

Dane moves towards the kitchen. He’s good at this. Grounded. Practical. If anyone can get her to eat, it’s him, I’m sure of it.

I head the other way, towards the lounge, where a few of our instruments are scattered from the last time we picked them up. A battered acoustic leans against the arm of the sofa, familiar as an old friend. I grab it, then hesitate.

She might respond to something softer. Something less demanding.

I shift through the cases until I find what I’m looking for – a smaller instrument, one that Blaise sometimes plays when he’s restless. A mandolin. The sound is light, plucked notes carrying an almost lullaby quality when played right.

This will work.

I tuck the instruments under one arm and make my way back to the bedroom, meeting Dane on the way with bottles of water and electrolyte drinks.

The scent of her heat still clings to the air, heady and sweet, but beneath it, Blaise’s scent lingers strongest. He’s wrapped in a blanket of Evie’s sweet floral rain, a scent that should be comforting, yet feels like an intrusion now.

Like I’m encroaching on a moment between the two of them that I shouldn’t be here for.

Which is ridiculous because they’re both fast asleep.

I’m acutely aware of how tangled together they are as I step into the room, pausing just inside the door.

She’s there, curled up against the pillows, her eyes still closed. But even in sleep, she holds a tension in her body, a quiet resistance in the way her shoulders are drawn up, as though bracing for something – maybe me. Maybe the weight of what’s coming.

I set the instruments and drinks down quietly, the soft thud of the mandolin casing almost lost in the haze of the room.

The dim lighting throws shadows across her face, highlighting the curve of her jaw, the softness of her lips.

There’s something haunting about her, even now, in her vulnerable state.

I move to sit on the edge of the recessed mattress, careful not to disturb her too much. My fingers brush lightly over the mandolin, just enough to let the strings hum, testing the tension, the sound.

“I don’t want to disturb you,” I whisper, though I’m not sure she’s even hearing me. The words feel too heavy, too fragile to be spoken in this space. But the pull is undeniable. The need to do something , anything, to bridge the distance between us.

Her eyelids flutter, then lift, just a fraction, as if she’s unsure whether to fully awaken.

Her gaze meets mine, bleary at first, then sharpens, as if she’s trying to process me in the dim light.

Her breath catches slightly, and I know she’s feeling it – that feeling.

The one that clings to the room, to us, whether we acknowledge it or not.

I let the mandolin’s strings hum once more, a soft, gentle note.