Page 12 of Bound By Song

I press my lips together. The thought crossed my mind more than once already in the short space of time we’ve been here. “I don’t know. But something’s off.”

“She told us to leave,” Blaise says, though there’s no real heat in his voice. He tosses the empty crisp packet on the dashboard and sighs. My eye twitches at the litter. “And we did. Let’s just find the bloody rental before this rain gets worse. Fuck, this place is a dump. Why couldn’t we be banished somewhere hot like the Bahamas or something?”

I hesitate, my eyes drifting back towards the farmhouse in the rear-view mirror. It’s barely visible now, shrouded in mist and shadows, but the image of her standing there, clutching that rolling pin like it was the only thing between her and the world, won’t leave my head.

And it’s not even because she’s anomega,though of course that has my protective alpha instincts stirring to life, it’sher.There’s something about her that has me intrigued and wanting to know her. I can’t explain it. I’ve never reacted like this to someone that I just met before, but there’s no denying that I want to see her again.

“Xar,” Dane says, his voice low but firm. “We can’t force her to talk. If she needs help, she can ask.”

I hate how reasonable he sounds. With a muttered curse, I turn the key and start the engine. The Range Rover rumbles to life, and I pull back onto the road.

“Bet we missed a turning,” Blaise says, fiddling with the sat-nav. “Knew it the second you insisted on taking the scenic route.”

I don’t reply. Not when I still want to punch his smug face again. Instead, I grit my teeth and try to concentrate on the road and the worsening conditions. Five minutes later, we find the bloody turning – a narrow lane half-obscured by a gnarled oak and no signpost in sight – and another ten minutes after that, the headlights sweep across the front of a stone cottage. It’s already dark so frankly it was a miracle we managed to find the place at all really.

The cottage is, by all accounts, charming. Ivy climbs the grey stone walls, and the roof is thatched in a way that looks picturesque rather than decrepit. Fairy lights twinkle in the windows, and a wreath of pine and berries hangs neatly on the door. Honestly, it looks like a scene out of ‘The Holiday’.

He’d deny it until he’s blue in the face, but that’s Blaise’s favourite Christmas film. That and Elf, because he has the same mental age and eating habits as the main character, and frankly, he’s a bit of a dick.

“Fucking hell,” Blaise declares, stepping out into the cold night air and stretching his arms. “It’s a bit twee,” he gripes.

“It’ll do. It’s fully stocked, too,” Dane says, pulling a note off the kitchen counter once we’ve carried the bags inside. “Owner left a message with Liv. Something about how they ‘anticipated our needs’.”

“Very thoughtful,” I mutter, dumping my guitar case against the wall. It’s everything the farmhouse wasn’t: neat, warm, inviting. And yet…

“It’s too perfect,” Dane grumbles, as if reading my mind. He tosses the note onto the counter and glances around, his sharp eyes scanning the space. “Feels like a show home.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Blaise says, already rummaging through the cupboards. “Bloody hell, they’ve even stocked the posh biscuits.” He pulls out a packet and waves it triumphantly before immediately ripping it open and diving in, despite the mountain of snacks, enough to feed a small army, that he devoured on the drive down here. “Luxury.”

But even he doesn’t seem entirely settled. We all feel it – the faint, nagging sense that something’s missing.

Dane brushes past me, his hand briefly grazing my shoulder. “Well, the place isn’t going to inspire much tonight,” he says. “And I’m not sure I’m in the mood to write another hit about the joys of Devon’s finest cottage rentals.”

Blaise barks a laugh. “Call it ‘Thatched Roof Blues’. It’ll be a banger.”

“Catchy,” I say drily, unzipping my guitar case. “But not quite on brand for the alpha bad boys of rock reputation we have to uphold.” I pluck a few strings, but the chords feel hollow,disconnected. Much like my words. It’s the ‘bad boy’ reputation that got us into this trouble. But the truth is, our music has felt that way for a while now, and given a choice, I’m not sure we even want toberockstars anymore.

But we don’t have a choice.

And my head’s not in it, it’s still back at that farmhouse. With her.

“Not tonight,” Dane says, sinking onto the sofa. “We’ll try tomorrow. Might as well do something vaguely festive instead.”

“Like what?” Blaise grins, already reaching for the remote. “A Christmas film? Don’t mind if I do. Fancy ‘The Holiday’, Dane?”

“Fuck off. Anything but that shit again.”

I sigh but don’t argue, instead lighting the fire that’s already been laid in the grate for us. There’s even a Christmas tree in the corner of the lounge, with wrapped gifts under it, which are no doubt down to Liv, our manager because we never buy anything for each other.

It’s not like Iwantto hang out with Dane and Blaise after being trapped in a car with them for so long, but what the hell else is there to do? It’s too early to go to bed, but too late and too wet to explore, and music is the furthest thing from my mind, so I drop down into one of the wing-back armchairs and prepare myself mentally for playing nice.

Blaise flips through the channels until he finds something suitably seasonal and cheesy enough to piss off Dane, and we settle in, the sound of on-screen laughter and festive music filling the cosy but emotionally cold space.

But my mind keeps wandering. Back to the farmhouse. Back to her.

And I know, as the film plays on and my band mates shift in their seats and fail to laugh at the jokes in the film that I’m not the only one distracted.

The cottage is dark and quiet, save for the soft creak of the ancient floorboards and the occasional whistle of wind through the thatched roof. Blaise is snoring softly in the next room, the sound muffled but still distinct. Dane, ever the night owl, has probably only just fallen asleep, and I know I should be doing the same.

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