Page 7 of Bound By Song

The moment the door shuts, Xar rounds on Blaise. “She should’ve been gonemonthsago.”

“Sheis now,” he snaps back. “That’s all that matters. I’m handling it.”

“No,” he growls. “You’reignoringit. You always do this – let someone in, let them mess with your head, and we’re the ones left cleaning up the wreckage.”

My jaw tightens as I watch them bicker, helpless. I could stop it, but I think this needs to happen. Shit needs to be said. It’s a bit shitty for Xar to drag up old wounds, but at the same time, I understand that it’s coming from a place of fear. Maybe they both just need to get this out of their system. Stop tiptoeingaround our issues, air our dirty laundry and get it over with, so that we can move on once and for all.

“Don’t pretend like this is all on me.”

“You stormed offstage, Blaise. In front of a packed house. In front ofexecs.”

“Iknowwhat I did.”

Xar steps forward, eyes blazing. “Then maybeown itfor once.”

Blaise looks ready to fire back – already halfway to saying something I’m sure he’ll regret – but I stand up, the chair scraping sharply against the floor. The sound cuts through the tension like lightning as I move between them, calm and quiet.

Like a wall made of stone.

“Enough,” I say, voice low. Firm. “Not here. Not now.”

Xar glares at Blaise for another long moment before backing off with a muttered curse, dragging a hand through his long, messy hair.

The room falls quiet again, the kind of silence that hums with everything unsaid.

I grab my bag off the chair and sling it over my shoulder. If we’re leaving shortly, I need to pack some shit. Doesn’t matter that they’ve already shipped my drum kit, I still need to gather personal items and supplies.

“Hope you boys are ready for a long, tense-ass drive to Devon,” I mutter, heading for the door. “Let’s get this over with.”

Xar glances up at me, his expression unreadable. Blaise doesn’t even look at me – he’s still staring at the table, his face shadowed in a way that makes me wish I could knock some sense into him. Just because Iget itdoesn’t mean I’m not mad at him too.

But there’s nothing left to say. Nothing that’ll fix this. All I can do is lead them into the next battle. I just hope we all make it out alive.

Yeah.

It’s going to be ahellof a ride.

Fun.

EVIANA

The 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 toalwayscall 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.

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