Page 88 of Bound By Song

And now here it is again, inhishands. Blaise. Playing it like it’s just another tune he stumbled across. But it’s not. Not to me.

My throat tightens, and that strange heat pulses low in my belly again – sharp, insistent, wrong. Or maybe notwrong, just unfamiliar. I shift, trying to push it down, but it’s still there. Tension in my limbs. Pressure behind my ribs.

I open my eyes slowly, dragging in a breath that does nothing to steady me.

I should say something. Ask him where he learned the song. Tell them I’m tired.Lie.

But the words stick in my throat, and all I can do is sit there – still, silent, and unraveling from the inside out.

Outside, the storm hasn’t eased. And inside, something else is starting to build.

Something I don’t have a name for.

Not yet.

BLAISE

She’s hiding something.

The way Eviana twitches every time I push a little too far, the way her hands fidget like she’s holding herself back – it’s a dead giveaway. Xar would probably say I’m being pushy, but I can’t help it. She’s interesting, and it’s not often you meet someone who keeps their cards so close to their chest.

The storm’s still roaring, and the house is…well, let’s call it “charmingly rustic.”

This morning, the kettle whistles faintly from the kitchen where Eviana’s busying herself, but I’ve never been good at sitting still.

I wander out of the sitting room, ignoring Xar’s pointed glance. I’m not going far, just…exploring.

The farmhouse isn’t huge, but every corner of it seems packed with little pieces of her. Sketchbooks stacked by the window. Paint splatters on the table. A couple of crumpled Post-it notes shoved into a jar, all with scribbles I can’t quite make out. She acts like she doesn’t create much, but this place says otherwise.

Then I find a door.

It’s tucked away in the hallway, half-hidden behind an old coat stand. If I hadn’t been looking for something to distract myself, I wouldn’t have noticed it.

The handle sticks when I try to turn it. Locked, maybe. But when I push harder, it gives way with a creak that practically screamsyou’re snooping.

I glance over my shoulder, but the sound of the kettle still hissing reassures me I’ve got time. Besides, if I’m caught, I’ll just flash a smile and play dumb. Works every time.

The door opens to reveal a staircase leading down, dimly lit by a single bulb which must be battery operated…that, or the power’s back on. It’s colder here, the air heavier. My boots echo softly against the wooden steps as I descend, curiosity tugging me forward.

At the bottom of the stairs, I see it.

A recording studio.

It’s small but perfect. Acoustic panels line the walls, and the floors are covered with mismatched rugs that somehow work. There’s a mic stand in the centre, an old upright piano against one wall, and shelves stacked with equipment. But the real giveaway is the laptop on the desk, its screen lit up with a logo I know all too well:Honey.

“Bloody hell,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair.

I step closer, scanning the setup. This isn’t some amateur hobbyist’s corner – this isprofessional. A well-loved guitar leansagainst the wall, and the notebook on the desk is filled with lyrics. Lyrics I’veheardbefore.

Honey.

I whisper the name again like it’s a spell I’ve just broken.

We’ve been trying to work with her for months. Some faceless, anonymous star who managed to blow up online by writing some of the most hauntingly beautiful music I’ve ever heard. No photo. No name. Nothing. Just a voice and a logo.

And all this time, she’s beenright here.

“Blaise?”

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