Chapter 10
TEN
Zia
Nate Lux smelled like lemon drizzle cake that had been dropped on a dusty stage floor.
It wasn't a bad smell, exactly, just performative. Artificial sweetness layered over the dry, static-charged scent of a Beta who lived for engagement metrics. He sat across the desk in his streaming studio, leaning into his mic with the practiced ease of a man who knew his good angles.
I wasn’t there. Not really.
Physically, I was in a sound-treated booth ten feet away, hidden behind a black curtain. Digitally, I was a purple fox avatar on the main monitor, my movements tracked by the rig strapped to my chest and face.
"So, we've got Riot Theory in the house!" Nate’s voice clipped the pre-amp. I winced and instinctively reached to pull his gain down on my remote interface. "We're raising money for Music Venue Trust, we've got Alfie and the lads on the sofa, and we've got the mystery voice herself, FoxTail!"
"Hi, Nate," I said. My voice ran through the vocoder, stripping the gender and the tremor out of it, leaving only the flat, clean signal. On screen, the fox avatar’s ears twitched in sync with my head movement.
"Big numbers today, guys. Huge." Nate checked his monitors. His eyes scanned the chat, hungry. "Chat is going absolutely mental. Everyone wants to know about the new sound. That raw demo Alfie dropped? The production on the new live sets? It’s cleaner, it’s tighter. What’s the secret sauce?"
Alfie, sitting on the plush leather sofa next to Kit and Euan, grinned. He was vibrating. I could see it on the preview monitor. His knee was bouncing, transmitting a low-frequency rumble into the floor that I could almost feel through the soles of my boots.
"No secret," Alfie said into his handheld mic. "Just found someone who knows how to listen."
@RiotGrrrl99: LISTEN TO HIM. THE DEVOTION.
@BassSlut4Cal: He looks at the monitor with the fox on it like he wants to eat it.
@TechNerd: Production value is up 400%. Facts.
"Right, right. Listening." Nate swiveled his chair. "But the chat... the chat has theories. You know how the internet is. They see a mystery, they want to solve it."
My stomach tightened. I focused on the waveform on my laptop. Keep it technical. Keep it safe.
"We keep the mystery because the work speaks louder," I said, my avatar nodding solemnly.
"Sure, sure. But..." Nate leaned in, his smile dropping into that conspiratorial 'we're just friends talking' expression that usually preceded a PR disaster. "I’ve got a mod overlay here. Standard stuff, pulls the most popular questions from the hashtag pile. Let’s see what the people really want to know. "
He hit a button on his stream deck.
He didn't vet it. Or maybe he did, and he just didn't care.
A massive graphic splashed across the livestream feed, bright red letters over a silhouette of a wolf and a fox.
LIVE: IS IT TRUE THERE’S AN OMEGA TOURING WITH THREE ALPHAS? FATED?? #BlackberryBond
The air in the room vanished.
On the preview screen, I saw Alfie go rigid. His smile didn't just fade; it fell off his face. Euan stopped blinking. Kit looked like he was calculating the structural integrity of Nate’s neck.
The chat exploded. It moved so fast it became a blur of color, purple, red, screaming caps.
@User887: IT’S TRUE ISNT IT
@AlphaKingStan: OMEGA OMEGA OMEGA
@ShipItHard: SHOW US THE BOND BITE
@HeatWatch: Is she in heat right now? Is that why she’s hidden?
My breath hitched. The vocoder caught the sound and turned it into a digital glitch.
The studio suddenly felt freezing. The lemon-drizzle scent soured, spiking with the ozone of burning electronics.
"Whoa," Nate laughed, a nervous, high-pitched sound. "Chat is thirsty today! So, Fox... Z... rumors are rumors, but the chemistry is undeniable. Care to comment on the, uh, designation speculation?"
He was smiling. He thought this was content. He thought my biology was a plot twist.
I looked at the Exit Card in my pocket. I could play it. I could cut the feed, walk out the back door, and disappear into the London rain.
But then I saw Alfie.
He was gripping the mic so hard the plastic housing was creaking. He was staring at the camera lens with a ferocity that usually preceded a riot. He was about to explode. He was about to defend me, and in doing so, he would confirm everything.
No.
I wasn't a damsel. I was the producer.
I engaged the direct line.
"Nate."
My voice came out flat. The Seattle cadence cut through the hype like a razor through silk. I didn't raise the volume. I heavily compressed the dynamic range so every syllable hit with equal, brutal weight.
"My designation isn't your business."
Nate blinked. "Whoa, okay, feisty! We’re just asking—"
"Heat isn't a brand activation," I continued, overriding him. "I am here to ensure the audio quality of this broadcast. I am not consenting to a claim, on or off camera."
Silence.
Absolute, dead air silence on the stream.
Then Alfie moved.
He didn't look at Nate. He looked straight into the lens, straight at me, or where I would be if I wasn't just pixels and code.
"Copy that," Alfie said. His voice was bright, dangerous, and loud. "Boundaries are punk."
He leaned forward, taking up the whole frame.
"Donate to the cause," he snapped, pointing at the charity link. "Don't demand access to people's bodies. If you're here for the music, stay. If you're here to hunt, jog on."
@BrittanyT: [MOD MESSAGE] Discussion of crew designation is a violation of channel rules. 10-minute timeout for offenders.
@BrittanyT: [MOD MESSAGE] We support safety here. #ProtectZ
The chat fractured.
The wall of thirst broke against a wall of policy. Brittany Thomas, the head mod, had engaged the macros. It wasn't just a timeout; it was a deluge.
[deleted by moderator]
[deleted by moderator]
[deleted by moderator]
@PunkQueen: BOUNDARIES ARE PUNK. Say it louder.
@RiotFan1: Respect the engineer. #FoxTailRespect
@LocalCrew: Finally someone said it.
Nate looked like he’d swallowed a bug. "Right. Uh. Powerful message. Very powerful."
"Credits," Euan said. It was the first time he'd spoken. It sounded like a gavel banging. "Roll them."
The stream cut to black.
I ripped the headset off. The chest rig tangled, and I fought it, panic rising in my throat like bile. The room felt too small. The lemon scent was suffocating.
I grabbed my bag and bolted.
I didn't stop until I hit the green room, a small windowless box in the back of the studio. I slammed the door and put my back against it, sliding down until I hit the floor.
My hands were shaking so hard I couldn't unzip my hoodie. The adrenaline crash hit me like a physical blow, cold sweat, racing heart, the thump-thump-thump of blood in my ears.
I did it. I said it.
But the words echoed in my head. Is she in heat? Show us the bite.
They wanted to consume me. Not the work. Me.
A shadow fell across the crack under the door.
Then, three distinct knocks.
"Z?"
Alfie.
"I'm—" My voice failed. I cleared my throat. "Door's unlocked."
The handle turned slowly.
He didn't come in.
He pushed the door open and sat down right on the threshold, facing into the room but keeping his boots in the hallway. He was wearing his black skinnies and a charity-shop tee that read DESTROY, but he looked... small. Contained.
His scent, blackberries and burnt sugar, rolled into the room. It wasn't manic. It was heavy, caramelized, warm. Why could I suddenly scent him? Why was my body reversing years of scent-blindness?
He didn't look at me. He looked at his hands, watching his thumbs trace over the Sharpie letters.
"Thank you," he said softly.
I wrapped my arms around my knees, trying to stop the shivering. "For what? For tanking the interview?"
He looked up then. His eyes were dark, blown wide, full of something that looked devastatingly like pride.
"For letting me back you up on record."
The air went out of my lungs.
"You didn't need permission," I whispered.
"I did," he said fiercely. "Always. I'm not.
.. I'm not going to be the Alpha who silences you to save you.
I wanted to tear Nate's throat out with my teeth.
But you spoke first. You drew the line. I just stood behind it.
" He leaned his head against the doorframe.
"That was properly punk, Z. 'My heat isn't a brand activation. ' Christ. Put that on a shirt."
"Rowan probably already is," I muttered, a weak laugh bubbling up.
"Probably." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. He looked exhausted. "You okay? Level with me. Furniture or wall?"
"Floor," I said. "Just... floor."
"Copy floor."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fidget spinner, one of the cheap plastic ones. He spun it on his knee. The whirrr sound was grounding.
From the hallway behind him, a familiar, mild voice drifted in.
"Right. Kettle's on."
Cal appeared in the slice of hallway visible through the door. He was holding his phone in one hand and a box of tea in the other. He didn't look at me, didn't invade the privacy of the moment. He just spoke to the air.
"Brittany Thomas has the hashtags locked down," Cal reported, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather.
"Trending #FoxTailRespect is currently out-pacing the romance speculation by three to one.
Euan has engaged the bot-net to flag keyword harassment.
And Nate Lux is currently being shouted at by Rowan in a way that suggests he may need therapy. "
Alfie snorted. "Go on, Rowan."
"She's using the 'disappointed mother' voice," Cal added. "It's lethal."
I closed my eyes.
I was sitting on a dirty floor in a green room. I was shaking. I had just declared war on the invasive curiosity of a million strangers.
But there was an Alpha guarding the door who wouldn't cross the threshold without asking. There was a Beta making tea and another running crisis PR like a general. There was a pack forming around me, facing outward, shields locked.
"Cal?" I called out.
"Yes, Z?"
"Milk. Two sugars."
Cal replied, "Already sorted."
Alfie spun the fidget toy again. He scooted an inch closer to the doorframe, still not crossing, just letting his shoulder rest against the wood.
"We got you," he whispered, low enough that the mic wouldn't have caught it, low enough that it was just for me. Those three words made my chest ache in a way I didn't understand.