Chapter 20
TWENTY
Zia
I treated the next four hours like a complex mix that just needed aggressive compression to keep the levels even.
Functionally, nothing had changed. We were still a band and crew on a tour bus hurtling toward Glasgow. Technically, everything had changed. The air in the bus, despite Euan’s military-grade scrubbers, felt thick with unspoken static.
They were trying to play it cool. They were failing spectacularly.
"Coffee?" Alfie asked for the third time in twenty minutes. We were sitting in the front lounge, me reviewing the setlist on my laptop, him pretending to write lyrics while staring intensely at my left ear.
"I’m still drinking the last one," I said, not looking up. "And the one before that."
"Right. Yeah. Hydration. Important." He scribbled something furiously that looked less like words and more like a jagged seismograph of his internal panic.
The hovering wasn't overt. They weren't crowding me or encroaching on the tape lines I’d torn up but hadn't erased from my mind. It was subtle. It was gravitational.
When I stood up to stretch, Kit, who was in the kitchenette, stopped chopping vegetables instantly, his whole body orienting toward me like a compass needle finding North.
When I rubbed my neck, Euan adjusted the thermostat within four seconds.
When I went to the bathroom, I heard the conversation in the lounge die instantly, waiting for the sound of the lock to click.
They were orbiting.
A triple match. Statistical unicorn.
I tried to focus on the EQ curve for the kick drum, but the colors were bleeding. Every time one of them moved, my synesthesia flared. Alfie’s burnt sugar scent was a wash of warm amber. Kit’s espresso was a deep, grounding brown. Euan’s sesame was a sharp, clean slate-grey.
I wasn't scent-blind anymore. Or rather, the signal was shouting so loud it was bypassing the hardware limitations of my nose.
"We're ten out from the Barrowlands," Cal announced from the jump seat, breaking the tension. "Load-in is going to be wet. Proper Scottish weather."
"Copy that," Alfie said, entirely too loud. He looked at me. "You got a coat? A proper one? Not just the hoodie?"
"I'm fine, Alfie."
"I've got a spare parka," Kit rumbled. "Waterproof. Thermal lining."
"It's a load-in, not an Arctic expedition," I said, closing my laptop. "I'll survive the twenty feet from the bus to the door."
Euan stood up. "I have analyzed the loading dock schematics. There is a canopy, but it has a structural leak three meters from the ramp. I will park the gear cases to create a dry corridor."
I stared at him. "You're going to reroute the rain?"
"I am going to mitigate the liquid intake," he said, dead serious.
I sighed, but the corner of my mouth twitched. They were impossible. They were terrifying. And God help me, the fact that they wanted to engineer a dry path for me made my chest ache.
The Barrowland Ballroom smelled the way legendary venues always smell: like fifty years of spilled beer, sweat, and ghosts. It was cavernous, echoing, and colder than the bus.
I went straight to Front of House. It was my fortress. The mixing console was the one place where the rules of physics still applied, where input equaled output and I had control over the faders.
"Check one, two," Alfie’s voice boomed through the PA, catching the natural reverb of the room.
I brought up the faders. "Too much 4k in your vocal, Alfie. It’s biting."
"Adjusting mic distance," he replied, backing off instantly. "Better?"
"Better."
The soundcheck proceeded with mechanical efficiency, but the emotional temperature in the room was red-lining. Every time I spoke over the talkback, three heads onstage snapped toward the booth.
Kit hit the snare. Crack.
"More attack," I said.
He adjusted his grip. CRACK.
"Good."
My skin felt tight. Too tight. A slow, rolling heat began to curl in my lower belly, different from the sharp cramps of the previous days. This wasn't pain; it was heavy, liquid pressure.
I shifted in the ergonomic chair Euan had insisted they rent for me. The friction of denim against my skin sent a shiver up my spine that had nothing to do with the drafty venue.
Four in. Six out.
I checked my watch. My suppressants were due in an hour. But the biological clock in my head was ticking faster than the one on my wrist.
"Let's run 'Lightning Strike'," Alfie called out. "Full volume. Let’s wake the ghosts up."
The band kicked in. The wall of sound hit me, glorious and massive. The subs rattled my ribcage. The lights swept the room, passing over the FOH booth.
For a second, in the flash of a strobe, I saw them not as musicians, but as creatures. Alfie, prowling the edge of the stage, eyes wild. Kit, a blur of violent motion behind the kit, anchoring the chaos. Euan, standing still amidst his towers of tech, manipulating the noise like a sorcerer.
The scent hit me then.
Distance didn't matter. The venue’s airflow didn't matter. The bond acted like a hardline cable, transmitting exactly what they were putting out.
Desire. Protection. Claim.
It slammed into me, triggering a biological response so violent I gasped, dropping my iPad.
The heat spiked. It wasn't a wave; it was a tsunami. My vision blurred, the colors of the music washing out into a blinding, hazy white. My scent blockers, the ones I paid a fortune for, disintegrated under the pressure.
Not here. Not now.
I gripped the edge of the console. I needed to stabilize the mix. I needed to ride the faders.
But my hands were shaking uncontrollably.
"Zia?" Euan’s voice cut through the mix. Not over the PA, but directly into my in-ear monitors. He’d isolated the channel. "Your heart rate just jumped to 140. Moving to intercept."
"No," I choked into the talkback. "Stay there."
"Z, you're spiking," Kit’s voice joined the private channel. The drums didn't stop, but the rhythm faltered for a microsecond. "We can smell it from here. It’s neon."
"Finish the song," I commanded, though my voice lacked its usual steel. "I'm... I'm taking five. Green room."
I didn't wait for an acknowledgment. I ripped my in-ears out and bolted.
The walk to the green room felt miles long. Every step was a battle against gravity. My body felt heavy, swollen, hypersensitive. The fabric of my t-shirt brushing my nipples felt like sandpaper. Typical pre-heat symptoms, but amplified by a factor of three.
I shoved through the green room door and slammed it shut, engaging the deadbolt with trembling fingers.
It was a small room, smelling of cheap leather cleaner and old carpet. I collapsed onto the sofa, curling into a ball, trying to breathe through the dizzying waves of vertigo.
This wasn't a "suppressant wobble." This was a full-system overrides. The dam had broken.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I fished it out to find a text from Rowan.
Euan says your biometric readings just went vertical. Do I need to clear the building?
I stared at the screen, trying to focus through the haze.
It’s hitting. The big one.
Suppressant failure?
No. Bond acceleration. My body is rejecting the chemicals. It wants…
I couldn't type it.
It wants the pack.
Rowan didn't mince words.
Yes.
I let out a whimpering breath, pressing the phone to my forehead. The cool glass felt good against my burning skin.
I knew what this meant. A full heat, triggered by a triple match, wasn't something I could sleep off with extra meds and a heating pad. It would be days. It would be intense. And if I tried to fight it alone, in a hotel room or a bunk, it would be agony.
Okay. We have options. I'm looking at the schedule.
The bubbles danced.
Option A: We cancel the next three gigs. We drive you to a secure hotel. I stay with you. We sedate you through the worst of it using medical protocols. It will be unpleasant, but sterile.
Option B: We keep the schedule. We modify the travel logistics to keep the bubble tight. And the lads help you through it.
I stared at "Option B."
The lads help you.
My brain summoned the memory of the green room in London. Alfie’s voice through the door. Closer. Harder. The way Kit had held me when I burned my hand. The way Euan had looked when I wore his hoodie.
I wanted that. I wanted it so bad it felt like a physical hunger, a gnawing emptiness in my center that only they could fill.
But helping me through a heat wasn't just a medical procedure. It was intimacy. It was primal. It was crossing a rubicon that I could never un-cross. If I let them handle me, touch me, slick me, knot me… then I wasn't just an engineer anymore. I wasn't just a collaborator.
I would be theirs.
And despite everything, despite the "learning not taking," despite the consent anthems... the terrified teenager inside me who had been handed that "Omega Rider" years ago was screaming that being theirs meant being owned.
What does "help" look like? Legally.
Rowan, bless her, was replying instantly.
Legally? It looks like whatever you define. Hand-stuff. Toys. Scenting. Full intercourse. Knotting. You set the menu. They are the service staff.
But Zia... you know it's not just mechanical for them. If you open this door, you are changing the dynamic of the tour. You are changing the dynamic of your life.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Tears leaked out, hot and frustrating.
I'm scared.
Good. You should be. Biology is terrifying. But ask yourself: Are you scared they'll hurt you? Or are you scared you'll like it too much to ever leave?
That was it. The jagged truth.
I wasn't afraid of Alfie, Kit, or Euan. I knew, with a certainty that defied logic, that Alfie would chew off his own tongue before he crossed a line I set. I knew Kit would hold a wall for days if I asked him to. I knew Euan would rewrite his own code to keep me safe.
I was afraid that if I let them in, the Exit Card in my back pocket would become just a piece of plastic. I was afraid that I would lose the solitude I had spent ten years convincing myself was freedom.
A knock at the door.
Gentle. Three taps.
"Zia?"
It was Alfie. His voice was low, stripped of all the chaotic energy, vibrating with a calm that sounded forced.
"We're off stage," he said through the wood. "Soundcheck is done. Euan cleared the corridor. It’s just us."
I didn't answer. I curled tighter.
"Rowan texted," he continued. "She said you're weighing options. She said... she said Option A is on the table."
A pause. I could hear him breathing. I could smell the burnt sugar leaking under the door, not acrid panic this time, but deep, caramelized sorrow.
"If you want the hotel," Alfie said, his voice cracking slightly, "if you want the sedation... we'll drive you. We'll guard the door. We won't come in. We'll cancel the shows. I don't care about the gigs, Z. I care about you surviving this."
He shifted his weight.
"But if you pick Option B..."
The air in the hallway seemed to thicken.
"If you pick B," he whispered, "we've got you. We've got the nest. We've got the hands. We've got... whatever you need. No taking. just giving. Copy that?"
I looked at my phone.
Rowan.
Here.
If I say yes to them... can I still say stop?
Always. That is the Rider. That is the law of their pack.
I sat up. The heat washed over me again, a dizzying rush that made the room spin. My body was screaming yes, screaming open the door, screaming pack.
I stood up, swaying. I walked to the door.
I rested my hand on the deadbolt.
I wanted to be brave. I wanted to be the cool, detached producer who managed her biology like a mix session.
But I just felt small. And hot. And lonely.
"Alfie?" I rasped.
"I'm here, fox."
"Option B," I whispered. "But I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be... pack."
"Neither do we," Alfie said, a ghost of a laugh in his voice. "But we'll figure out the mix together."
I turned the lock.