Page 88 of Bound By Song (Evie Quad Omegaverse #1)

Shira arches a brow. “Poetic.”

“We’ve had help,” Xar says, and looks up at me.

Shira catches it. “Evie, did you collaborate?”

I nod, cheeks warming. “Some lyrics. A few melodies. Nothing official.”

“She’s being modest,” Blaise says. “Three songs are hers. One of them made me cry.”

I bury my face in his shoulder. “Don’t say that on camera.”

Shira’s smile widens. “Too late.”

Then she softens, tilting her head slightly.

“One last question,” she says gently. “And I’ll respect whatever answer you give. But for the record – Evie…are you Honey?”

The air stills.

Dane’s arm curls tighter around me. Blaise rests his chin on my shoulder. Xar laces our fingers again.

I lift my head. Look straight into the camera.

And smile.

“I’m exactly who I want to be.”

Shira laughs softly. “Fair enough.”

Eventually, the cameras go dark. The call ends. And just like that, the world quiets again.

No more questions. No more flashbulbs or accusations. Just the steady rhythm of my heartbeat and the weight of my alphas beside me.

I sink back into the couch, tucked into Dane’s side. Xar leans against my legs where he’s still on the floor, his head resting against my knee, and Blaise sprawls out at the other end, smirking faintly like he just got away with something.

Maybe he did. We all did. We didn’t just survive it. We told our story on our terms. And somehow, that makes all the difference.

The house still smells faintly of strangers, but less so.

The wind has aired it out. The window that was smashed for the person to get in has been repaired.

Blaise swept the floors and did a stellar job of tidying the communal spaces, and Dane took down the broken photo frame and put it in a drawer, even though we both know he’ll fix it.

But the studio – the nest – none of that’s been touched.

They’re waiting for me. So that together, we can rebuild.

The guys carry in new pillows, blankets, soft throws, a weighted duvet, even a new hoodie with Xar’s scent freshly marked into the collar.

Dane takes his time layering each item, checking that I nod before adding the next.

Blaise finds a candle that smells like smoke and sugar and lights it on the shelf.

And when I crawl into it – this space they made for me all over again – I don’t cry.

I just breathe.

Slow. Deep. Safe.

Maybe this nest is even more perfect than the others. Because this one we built together, without resistance, fear or doubts. Just acceptance, love and a hope for a better future.

The studio takes longer because the guys want to expand it and make it a space big enough for the four of us. But we get there.

Xar re-strings the guitar he salvaged. Dane wires in a new mic. Blaise hauls in the upright piano from the living room, even though it nearly takes all three of them to manage the stairs.

My lyric sheets are gone, but the words aren’t.

I find them again, bit by bit.

Late at night. In the quiet. In the way Blaise hums to himself when he thinks I’m asleep.

In the way Dane taps rhythms on the counter while waiting for his coffee to brew.

In Xar’s soft voice when he reads over the latest arrangement, always catching the line I’m most unsure of and repeating it like it’s already perfect.

And one night, it all clicks.

The words. The melody. The feeling in my chest that’s not grief anymore – but something warmer.

Hope.

We call it Survivor’s Lullaby .

It’s not polished. It’s not perfect.

But it’s ours.

I sing the first verse, voice low and aching.

Xar’s harmony rises like a shield around me. Dane plays drums – steady, grounding. And Blaise, for once, doesn’t try to take the spotlight. He plays bass behind us and hums the final line against my skin when I falter.

We don’t record it in the studio.

We record it in the nest.

One take. No edits. Just candlelight and quiet love.

We frame the first print of the lyrics and hang it above the fireplace.

A song for the girl I used to be.

And the woman I am now.

It’s late when we finally talk about it.

The future.

I’m curled against Xar’s side on the newly fitted porch swing, wrapped in a blanket, listening to the sea crash far beyond the trees.

Blaise stands leaning against the railing, grumbling about the goats despite the fact that they’ve helped him grow his social media following into the millions and he loves them.

Dane sits on the steps below us, elbows on his knees, staring at the stars.

“I don’t want to be famous,” I say quietly.

None of them speak for a moment.

Then Dane nods.

“You don’t have to be.”

“But you are,” I say. “All of you. And you love it. You were made for it. The stage, the lights, the roar of it all – it feeds you.”

“It does,” Blaise admits. “But so do you.”

Xar lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles. “We’ll find a balance.”

“But how?” I whisper. “When the world wants to pull you forward and I just want to stay here?”

“Then we give them just enough,” Dane says. “We tour. We release the album. You stay here if that’s what you need. Or come when you want. But the rest? That’s ours. The nest, the studio, the porch, your songs – ours. They don’t get to have that. This life, here, with you, is ours. No one else’s.”

Blaise flicks ash into the wind. “We make the rules, honeybee. No one else.”

“And if I want to write my own stuff?” I ask, voice small. “If I want to make music…but quietly. On my terms.”

Xar’s smile curves slow and sure. “Then Liv sets up that meeting.”

Blaise winks. “But only if you promise to include a hidden track that makes us all cry.”

I laugh, and something inside me uncoils.

I don’t need to choose between silence and spotlight. I can stand in the middle.

Surrounded. Protected. Free.

Loved.

“I want it all,” I admit. “You. The music. The quiet. The messy in-between.”

Dane looks up at me, eyes like stormlight. “Then that’s what we’ll build.”

Not just a studio.

Not just a nest.

A life.

Together.