Page 7 of Bound By Song (Evie Quad Omegaverse #1)

EVIANA

T he hum of the scent neutralisers is as much a part of my world as the wind brushing through the old sycamores outside.

It’s steady, predictable – just the way I like it.

I stand back from the canvas, tilting my head to study the streaks of soft lavender I’ve painted across the sky.

The farmhouse smells faintly of fresh rain and the wild mint that grows just outside the windows, calming and familiar, but I can never be free of the traces of lavender.

I can’t stand the smell, but still it invades my life in the sunrises that I paint, the items that I knit, the clothes that I wear.

It lingers like a ghost of the past, woven into the fabric of my days, haunting even the moments I wish could be mine alone.

I frown at the painting, appraising it critically. It’s not a masterpiece, but it’s mine. At least for now anyway. This piece is a commission for someone in Scotland. It’s mind blowing to think that my work has reached all four corners of the U.K., and even stranger still that people pay me for it.

I sigh and set the brush down, rubbing at a smudge of paint on my wrist. This is how I prefer things: quiet, orderly, safe. Alone. No one barges in, no one disturbs my space, disrupts my peace. Not even my sisters.

I can breathe here. Well, now I can, anyway. For the entirety of my childhood I felt like I was walking on eggshells, trapped by rules that constricted tighter than any corset strings ever could.

But the magical spell is broken when I hear it – a crunch of tyres on gravel. My hand stills, my breath catching. No one comes out here. They rarely did when Grams was alive and they certainly don’t since she died. Not without a reason anyway. And my sisters know to always call first.

So who could it be? And why does the thought of unexpected visitors fill me with stomach-churning anxiety?

Frowning, I cross to the window, pushing the curtain aside just enough to peek out. It’s late afternoon on a Sunday, which makes this situation even stranger somehow.

A sleek black 4x4 sits in the potholed driveway, the kind that screams money and doesn’t belong anywhere near this ramshackle farmhouse. I blink, hoping it’s some sort of mistake, but the engine cuts, and the doors swing open.

Three men climb out.

My stomach clenches.

Even from here, I can feel it: they’re not just men, they’re alphas .

All tall, broad-shouldered, and overwhelming in a way that makes my pulse race and all of my instincts scream danger.

The first one – golden-haired, scruffy and irritatingly good-looking – scans the farmhouse with sharp, assessing eyes.

The second, with wild red locks, is grinning like this is some sort of adventure.

His smile is infectious and dangerously disarming.

And the third, absolutely ginormous and towering over the others like a solid wall of body-building, body-guarding muscle, with dark hair and a dangerous vibe, looks around like he’s already bored.

All three of them are sporting 5 o’clock shadows in different hues, which only makes them look all the more dangerous.

And alluring.

What the hell are they doing here ? There’s no way they can know about me, surely. How could they? But what other reason could there be for their presence if they’re not here to take me away?

There are harsh laws surrounding our designations, none stricter than the rule that states all omegas must be formally registered when their designation first presents.

My sisters and I are not. We’re unregistered. Always have been. We’re ghosts. We don’t exist. We are, in the eyes of the law, fugitives. Illegal, Grams always used to say .

How a person – a human being – can be classed as illegal is incomprehensible to me. Because our guardian failed to fill out the required paperwork when we were younger, it somehow makes us less than human? Somehow it’s paperwork, not a heartbeat, that entitles us to basic human rights?

My heart pounds as they start towards the front door. I stumble back from the window, yanking the curtain shut. They’re going to knock. They’re going to smell me. Everything I’ve worked so hard to protect will unravel…

No . Breathe, Eviana.

They can’t. They won’t scent me.

The neutralisers pump steadily through the house, masking any hint of omega scent. It’s one of the ways I’ve managed to stay hidden this long. That, other things, and staying home as much as possible.

But what if it’s not enough? What if ? —

A knock reverberates through the old wooden door, startling me out of my spiralling thoughts. I freeze, staring at it as if it might come to life, swing open and betray me.

Another knock. Louder this time.

“Hello?” A deep voice calls out. It’s smooth, confident, and thoroughly alpha . That voice alone could send an omega into an early heat, but it just fills me with terror. “We’re looking for someone. Is anyone home?”

I don’t move. Maybe they’ll think no one’s here. Maybe they’ll just leave.

The second voice pipes up, melodiously light and teasing. “Come on. Doesn’t look like anyone lives here. Are you sure we’ve got the right place? It’s a bit…rough. Even with the label’s punishment.”

Label? They don’t sound like government officials. From my brief glance at them as they climbed out of the huge black Range Rover I can admit they don’t look like officials either. They’re dressed far too casually. But maybe that’s part of their plan? They could be undercover omega hunters.

Or worse…

The thought makes me quake.

There’s a pause, and I imagine the first man glaring at him. “The sat-nav says this is the place.”

“Well, maybe it’s wrong.” The teasing lilt is gone now and there’s a strong sudden undercurrent of tension. “We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere.”

They certainly don’t talk like government officials.

“Or maybe,” the third one says, his tone dry and velvety, “they’re hiding.”

Hiding. Fuck. I curse under my breath. Maybe they are here to find me after all.

I edge back further into the room, careful not to make a sound and not to disturb my freshly finished painting.

If they cause me to mess up the piece I’ve spent weeks working on, I’ll be so mad.

I can’t afford to lose or even delay this commission.

I have a long waiting list, sure, but I still need the money.

Desperately. And this is one of the few revenue streams I can follow without needing to leave the house or show my face to strangers.

My mind races. I could slip out the back door, but they’d probably hear me. I doubt I’d get far anyway because an alpha’s instinct when an omega runs is to chase… and besides, where would I go? The farmhouse is deliberately isolated for a reason and I’m no Olympic sprinter.

I could tell them to leave, but then I’d have to open the door, and there’s no way I’m doing that.

I can’t. It’s not just about risking being discovered, it’s everything.

They’re in my space. My citadel. Even if it’s ‘rough’, it’s mine.

This is my safety from the world out there.

If I open the door and let the world intrude, all sorts of terrible things will happen.

Breathe, Evie. You’ve got this. You don’t have to open the door. They’ll leave soon enough and you’ll be safe once more. Just keep quiet and keep breathing.

I bite my lip, weighing my options, when someone knocks again. “If you’re in there,” one of them calls lightly. It sounds like the teasing one. I bet it’s the redhead. He looked far too happy. I bet he never takes anything seriously. “We’re not murderers or anything, I promise.”

Oh that fills me with confidence. Not.

The dry one snorts. “Great reassurance.”

The first one sighs, clearly losing patience. “We just need directions. We’re lost. That’s all.”

Lost? What are they even doing out here? The nearest village – Silver – is a good couple of miles away, the closest town even further, and this farmhouse isn’t exactly on the tourist trail. And he said they were looking for some one , now they’re lost? I smell a rat.

When I don’t answer, they murmur amongst themselves, their voices too low for me to catch.

My chest tightens. They’re not leaving. Why aren’t they leaving?

Oh god. What if they try to break in?

I glance at the back door. Maybe if I’m fast enough, I can?—

A creak.

My eyes snap to the front door. One of them is trying the handle.

Panic flares, and I dart into the kitchen, grabbing the nearest thing I can find: a rolling pin.

It’s not much, but it’ll have to do. I mean, it was my Grams’ and it’s made of solid marble with wooden handles and it weighs a tonne and could easily kill someone, so it’s not like I grabbed a dishrag. But still…

Another creak. The door doesn’t budge – thank God I keep it locked, even out here on my own thanks to the paranoia instilled in me by Grams when she was alive – but the deep-voiced one speaks again, more insistent this time.

“Listen, we’re not here to cause trouble.” Whoever that is sounds thoroughly fed up now. “We’re just trying to find our rental property. If you could give us directions, we’ll be on our way.”

Rental property? That explains the car, at least, if they’re not government workers…

and I don’t think they are. It could be a trap though.

But it doesn’t explain why they think they belong here .

The farmhouse is the furthest thing from a rental possible.

It almost makes me snort, but I won’t risk giving myself away.

I clutch the rolling pin tighter, edging back towards the hallway. The neutralisers hum louder in my ears, but they do nothing to calm my racing heart.

I should have worn a scent blocker today too.

I usually save that for the days when I’m forced to leave the house and head into town for supplies, because it’s expensive and I don’t have an unending supply, but maybe I’ll have to start wearing it daily.

Especially if unannounced visitors are going to become a regular thing.