Page 87 of Bound By Song (Evie Quad Omegaverse #1)

EVIANA

I know something’s wrong the moment we pull into the drive.

The gate hangs open, swinging in the breeze like a broken promise.

The porch light, always left on like a beacon, is dark.

And the air?—

The air feels hollow. As if the house itself is holding its breath.

Blaise is out of the car first. I watch the way his shoulders lock, his fists curling at his sides. Xar follows, a silent shadow behind him, his eyes sweeping the dark. His hand brushes the small of Blaise’s back, a barely-there touch – grounding.

Dane doesn’t move.

Not at first.

His hand clamps around my wrist, firm but not painful, and he looks at me – really looks.

“Stay,” he murmurs, his voice low, gravel-worn. “Please.”

But the moment the front door creaks open, and I hear Blaise’s voice – sharp and raw and agonised – “Fuck” – I know I won’t listen.

My legs move before I think. I push past Dane, ignoring his shout, heart hammering.

The air inside the house is thick with… wrongness . The kind of wrong that claws at your throat and settles behind your ribs. The scent of strangers clings to the walls – sour, sharp, alien. A cold draft snakes down the hallway, stirring the chaos that litters the floor.

Shoes scattered like a struggle.

Chairs overturned.

A photo frame shattered – our only childhood picture of me and my sisters splintered into glass and memory.

Downstairs in the studio my instruments are splintered, keys ripped from the piano, guitar strings snapped like veins. Pages of lyrics – mine, raw, real – lie soaked in something sticky and dark. Ink bleeds down the walls like someone tried to silence me with a scream.

I don’t stop moving until I reach the room at the end of the corridor.

And then?—

I stop breathing.

The world tilts.

My nest.

Gone.

Blankets shredded, stuffing strewn like snow. My pillows gutted. The sweater Blaise gave me – ripped in two. The hoodie Xar draped over me the other night – slashed. The soft scarf Dane used to scent me – torn to ribbons.

The sanctuary they built for me with their own hands, with their scents, their care – violated.

They didn’t take anything.

They just destroyed it. Everything.

My knees hit the floor with a crack. I barely feel it.

I don’t scream.

I don’t cry.

I just fold in on myself.

A broken shape in the ruins of my safety.

Dane’s arms are around me seconds later, pulling me into his lap like I weigh nothing. He wraps himself around me, whispering over and over like a chant, like a spell:

“We’ve got you. We’ve got you. We’re going to fix this, little wildflower.”

“But it was mine,” I whisper, voice barely audible. “It was mine and they ruined it. They ruined me.”

Xar stands in the doorway, eyes like fire under ice. His voice is hoarse. “They didn’t ruin you. They didn’t take you. And they never will.”

Blaise drops beside me, silent, trembling. His forehead presses to mine, and in the closeness, I smell cedar and smoke, the sharp tang of fury barely leashed.

We stay there for a long time.

The four of us in the wreckage.

A pack curled around the heart they tried to shatter.

The next morning, the world explodes.

Not with fire.

Not with screams.

But with headlines.

“Honey Unmasked: The Mystery Omega Is Back – and Living With The Band.”

The photo isn’t clear, but it doesn’t have to be.

Me, tucked into Blaise’s side, leaving the hotel. My face tilted up toward him, trusting. Vulnerable. His hand around my waist like I belong there. Like I always have.

The article spins theories like cobwebs. One thread links me to Honey through voice comparisons. Another pulls photos from my past. They dig, claw, speculate.

They don’t need to say it outright.

They’ve already decided it’s me.

My phone buzzes nonstop until Dane tosses it into a drawer and shuts it with a thud.

The rest of the house is silent.

I sit at the kitchen table, wrapped in one of Dane’s sweatshirts – too big, sleeves swallowing my hands. My mug of tea sits untouched, gone cold. I stare at the swirling milk cloud frozen at the bottom and wonder how long I can stay like this before it curdles too.

I feel them before I hear them.

Blaise leans against the counter. Xar perches on the edge of the sink. Dane sits beside me, his hand a steady pressure on my knee.

They’re waiting for me to break.

But I don’t.

I just say, voice thin and shaking, “So what now?”

They freeze.

Even Blaise stops fidgeting. His mouth parts, a word forming but not spoken.

“You’re not leaving?” he asks, voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.

I lift my gaze to meet his.

“I don’t want to leave,” I whisper. “I’m just so tired of pretending I’m not terrified.”

Xar moves first. He crosses the room and crouches beside my chair. His hand finds mine, rough thumb brushing over my knuckles.

“Then let’s stop pretending,” he says simply. “We control the narrative. We tell them what we want them to know – and not a word more.”

“We release a statement,” Dane adds, tone measured, protective. “Announce that you’re our omega. That you’re part of the band’s inner circle. That you’re protected. Loved. Ours.”

“But we don’t confirm Honey,” Xar finishes. “Let them spin themselves in circles.”

Blaise grins then – slow, sharp. All teeth and vengeance.

“Let them drown in guesses.”

I look at them. These three men. My alphas. My home.

They’ve carried me through hell. Held me when I couldn’t stand. Scented every corner of this house like a shield.

And they’re still here. Ready to fight for me. With me.

I nod, once.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Let’s do it.”

We don’t do a press conference in some polished venue with glaring lights and velvet ropes. We do it from the couch.

I sit curled between Blaise and Dane, tucked into a hoodie that still smells faintly of citrus peel and woodsmoke.

Xar sets up the camera at just the right angle, then sits cross-legged on the floor in front of us, his knee brushing my foot.

The laptop’s propped on the coffee table, cables everywhere, a half-empty mug forgotten beside a wrinkled takeout menu.

It doesn’t feel like a press conference.

It feels like home.

Liv appears on screen first, bright blonde and brisk, her voice cutting through the nerves building in my chest.

“Evie, darling, you look wonderful,” she says, warm but no-nonsense.

“It’s so lovely to meet the omega who tamed the bad boys of rock.

I have so much to thank you for, but that can wait until we meet in person.

Now, you don’t have to say a word if you don’t want to, today.

We’re keeping it relaxed. Just a few questions from a trusted contact in the press.

Nothing like those mongrels who hounded you the other night. ”

I nod, my throat too tight for speech.

“I’ll be on mute during the chat, but I’ll be right here if you need me,” she continues.

Then she softens, eyes kind. “You’ve done brilliantly just getting here.

If, at any point, you want to talk about going wide with your music – getting your own deal – just say the word. I’ve already had interest.”

I blink. “You have?”

She smiles, cat-pleased. “Our label has been following you for months. Who do you think turned Blaise into Honey’s biggest fan in the first place? And we’re not the only ones who’ve been listening.”

Before I can process that, the screen flickers, and another woman joins the call.

I know her instantly.

Shira Ellis. Omega. Former investigative reporter turned music correspondent. Fierce. Smart. One of the few journalists who’s ever called out alpha-heavy media bias and lived to keep her job.

My nerves spike, but then she smiles, soft and knowing.

“Evie. I’m so glad to meet you.”

I manage a shaky, “Hi.”

“Thank you for agreeing to this,” she says. “I know you’ve been through…a lot. We’re going to keep this kind, okay? You can pass on anything.”

I nod, and the tight knot in my chest starts to loosen.

She turns to the guys. “Ruin Bound. All together and still standing. That alone is worth a headline.”

Xar shrugs modestly, and Blaise grins. “Barely standing some days. But yeah. Still here.”

Shira smiles. “Let’s start from the beginning. Why were you really in Silver?”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Dane answers.

“We needed a break,” he says. “After the last tour, everything felt...off. We needed space to write again. To breathe.”

“To heal,” Blaise adds quietly.

Xar reaches up, tangling his fingers loosely with mine. “We didn’t expect to meet Evie, at all. But the second we did?—”

“We couldn’t leave,” Blaise finishes.

Shira turns back to me. “Evie, how did you meet them?”

I can’t help it. I laugh, the sound surprising all of us.

“There was flour everywhere,” I say. “Like, everywhere.”

Blaise groans. “Oh no, not the flour story. That wasn’t the first time, little one.”

“She was barefoot,” Xar adds fondly. “Yelling at us through a screen door.”

“She threatened me with a rolling pin,” Blaise mumbles into his sleeve.

“It was for protection!” I reply.

Shira’s eyes sparkle. “I need this story.”

So I tell it. About the porch. About the way they wouldn’t leave me alone. About Blaise barging in with that stupid smirk and the traps. About the first gift they ever sent me which miraculously survived the intrusion because it was folded up in the lounge.

“They were chaos from the beginning,” I say with a grin. “But they were kind. They looked after me during the storm, fixed my roof when I fell, carried me inside when I was half-frozen.”

“You fell off the roof?” Shira repeats, alarmed.

I nod. “It’s how they found out I was suppressing. I didn’t mean to – it just felt safer that way. But Xar he saw right through me. They all did.”

The guys go quiet for a moment. I feel the heat of their pride settle around me.

Shira gently moves the conversation on. “And the music? Word is the new album’s nearly done?”

Dane nods. “We’re delivering it to the label next week.”

“Title?”

“Not finalised,” Blaise says. “But the working one is Ashes and Honey .”