Page 194 of Bound By Song

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 onthe 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.

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