Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
Zia
"I sang too loud," Alfie whispered again, his voice cracking on the last word.
The air in the front lounge, which moments ago had felt like a sanctuary, now tasted like burning circuitry. The comfortable silence of the morning-after had been shattered by a notification sound.
I looked at Alfie. He was curled in on himself on the edge of the sofa, his pink faux-fur coat draped over his shoulders like he was trying to hide inside it. The golden retriever energy was gone; he looked like a dog that had chewed up the furniture and was waiting for the newspaper.
"Define 'too loud'," I said, keeping my voice steady. My producer brain was already kicking in, overriding the soft, hazy afterglow of the nest. When the mix is peaking, you don't panic; you reach for the limiter.
Euan didn't speak. He just silently turned the phone screen toward me.
I took it. My hand wasn't shaking, but my stomach did a slow, sick roll as I scanned the social media app he had open.
@MusicJournoUK: Riot Theory's frontman breaks script at Barrowlands... Who is the 'Ghost in the Machine'?
@RiotStan4Eva: 'Furniture or wall.' That's not a lyric, that's a code. He was talking to someone specific.
And there it was. Furniture or wall.
The private code Kit had used in the loading dock when I was melting down. The safety phrase that meant I will be solid object so you don't have to be a person right now.
Alfie had broadcast it to two thousand people and a global livestream.
I scrolled down. The hashtags were breeding like bacteria. #TheEngineer. #WeWantToBuild.
Then I saw Gareth Blake's tweet.
@GarethBlake_Official: Love seeing the boys passionate about their team! Romance sells records, eh? Watch this space for exclusive BTS content. #RiotRomance
The phone screen felt hot against my fingertips.
"He changed the lyrics," Euan said, his voice sounding like it was coming from a long way away. "During the encore. He pivoted the narrative from singular to plural. He included the specific safety protocol phrases we established in Leeds."
"I didn't mean to," Alfie choked out. He ran a hand through his messy hair, tugging at the roots.
"I saw you... well, I didn't see you, but I felt you.
The bond was screaming. The crowd was screaming.
And I just... I needed you to know we were waiting.
I needed you to hear the signal over the noise floor. "
"So you shouted it through a megaphone," Kit said. He wasn't looking at Alfie; he was looking at me, his dark eyes tracking my reaction with terrifying intensity. He looked ready to fight the internet with his bare hands.
"I messed it up," Alfie said, staring at his boots. The scent of burnt sugar coming off him was acrid, thick and choking. "I ruined it. We had one perfect night. One night where you didn't have to be a ghost. And I just dragged the spotlight right onto your face."
I stared at the phone. I looked at the trending topics.
#WhoIsFoxTail
The industry eats Omegas. That's what I’d told myself since I was seventeen. That’s why I lived in a warehouse with triple deadbolts. That’s why I wore hoodies three sizes too big and panic-attacked my way through loading docks.
If they found me, they would consume me. They would turn me into content. Look at the little Omega producer, isn't she cute with her faders? Look at who she belongs to.
I looked at the Exit Card in my mind. It was sitting on the table in the back lounge, right where I’d flipped it over last night.
I could grab it. I could pack my bag. We were stopping in Manchester soon. I could disappear into the grey city rain and be a ghost again.
But then I looked at Alfie.
He was trembling. Genuine tremors rocking his frame. He wasn't scared for his career. He wasn't scared of the label. He was scared he’d lost me.
I looked at Kit, his jaw set so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek. I looked at Euan, who was already mentally dissecting a new security protocol to scrub the internet.
They weren't the industry. They were the glitch in the system.
Logic dictated I run.
Biology, the humming, golden thread that now connected my sternum to theirs, dictated I stay.
"Okay," I said.
The word dropped into the silence like a stone in a pond.
"Okay?" Alfie looked up, eyes wet and wide. "Just... okay?"
"No, not just okay." I handed the phone back to Euan. "It's a mess. The signal-to-noise ratio is critical. But we're not going to let the feedback loop kill the speakers."
I walked over to the kitchenette island. My legs were sore, a deep, muscular ache in my thighs and hips that reminded me exactly what we’d been doing six hours ago. It was a good ache. It felt like ownership.
"Cal," I called out, though I knew he wasn't in the room.
The curtain to the Beta bunk slid open instantly. Cal appeared, looking rumpled but alert, like he’d been waiting for the summons.
"Tea?" he asked.
"Laptop," I corrected. "And tea. Strong. If you don't mind?"
I climbed onto one of the bar stools. It was uncomfortable. I shifted my weight, wincing slightly.
Immediately, three Alphas moved.
Kit was there first, sliding a cushion from the banquette under me before I could even ask. Euan adjusted the air vent above my head. Alfie scrambled to my side, resting his chin on the counter near my elbow, looking up at me like I held the keys to his execution.
"You're staying?" Alfie whispered.
"I haven't packed, have I?" I opened Cal's laptop as he slid it across the counter. "Gareth Blake wants to sell a romance? Fine. But he’s trying to sell a fairy tale. We’re going to give him a documentary."
"I don't follow," Kit said, leaning against the fridge, crossing his tattooed arms.
"He used the hashtag #RiotRomance," I analyzed, pointing at the screen. "He’s trying to frame this as a band dating their cute little helper. He wants to infantilize the dynamic so he can monetize it. If we let him define the story, I become the groupie you guys kept as a pet."
A low growl rumbled in Kit’s chest. "You're not a pet. You're the Pack Leader."
"I know that. You know that. The internet thinks I'm a pair of legs and a secret." I logged into the backend of the Riot Theory website. I had admin privileges. Euan had given them to me in week one so I could fix audio uploads.
"We control the signal," I said, typing furiously. "We don't deny the bond. Denying it makes it look like a scandal. We own it. But we own it as policy."
"Policy?" Alfie blinked.
"Boundaries are punk," I quoted him. "You said it. You sang it. So we make this about the work. We make this about the music."
I pulled up the draft of the Omega-Safe Rider that Rowan and I had been working on in secret. It was messy, full of redlines and comments, but the core was there.
Clause 1: Scent Neutrality in Workspace.
Clause 2: The Right to Disconnect (Exit Clauses).
Clause 3: Credit Integrity.
"We leak portions of the rider," I said. "We don't confirm who the Omega is. We verify that yes, Riot Theory tours with an Omega producer, and this is how you treat them."
Euan’s eyes lit up. The systems brain was coming online. "We pivot from gossip to advocacy. If the conversation is about industry standards, the speculation about your identity becomes secondary to the political statement."
"Exactly." I looked at Alfie. "You didn't sing a love song, Alfie. You sang a manifesto."
Alfie’s face transformed. The guilt evaporated, replaced by a slow, dawning awe. "I sang a manifesto," he repeated, testing the weight of it. "Yeah. Yeah, I did."
"But Gareth," Kit warned. "He’s slippery. He’ll verify the bond just to spite us."
"Let him try," I said, feeling a flash of cold, sharp anger. "He doesn't know my name. He doesn't know my face. He just knows I exist. And if he tries to doxx me..." I looked at Euan. "We have the honey-token trap ready?"
Euan nodded, a dangerous glint in his grey eyes. "The active bouquet-cam sting. We haven't deployed it yet, but the infrastructure is live."
"Good." I closed the laptop.
I turned on the stool to face them. My pack.
They looked exhausted. They looked worried. They smelled like a mix of distress and the heavy, lingering scent of sex and claiming.
"I'm not running," I said quietly. "I meant what I said last night. I want the full spectrum. But we do this my way. Two constraints."
"Name them," Kit said immediately.
"One: Nobody confirms my identity until I say so. I stay FoxTail until I’m ready to be Zia to the world."
"Done," Alfie swore. "I won't even say your name in my sleep."
"Two, whatever happens with the press... this bus stays a bubble. When the door closes, we’re not a political statement. We’re just us. No strategizing in the nest."
"Copy that," Kit said, his voice thick with relief. He stepped forward, breaking his own self-imposed distance, and wrapped his arms around my waist, burying his face in my stomach. "Just us. Furniture and walls and whatever you need."
I rested my hand on his head, gripping the short hair at the nape of his neck. The contact grounded me instantly.
Alfie let out a long, shuddering breath and slumped against my leg. Euan simply reached out and took my hand, pressing his thumb into my wrist, checking my pulse.
It was steady.
"Right then," Cal said, placing a fresh mug of tea on the counter with a definitive clink. "Crisis managed. Now, who wants breakfast? Alfie, you look like you’re about to faint, and Kit needs protein if he’s going to keep looking threatening."
"Pancakes," Alfie mumbled into my thigh. "But only if Z eats first."
"I'm eating," I promised. "I'm starving."
We ate. It was chaotic and loud and messy. Alfie spilled syrup on the counter. Kit ate four eggs in silence, watching me over the rim of his coffee mug like I might disappear if he blinked. Euan lectured us on the glycemic index of the bread while stealing bites of my toast.
But underneath the domestic noise, the threat was still humming. My phone kept buzzing on the counter. Rowan was likely fighting a war in a boardroom somewhere. Gareth Blake was plotting.
I didn't care.
I had three Alphas who would burn the industry down before they let a single person touch me without a backstage pass.
After breakfast, I went back to the rear lounge to grab my laptop charger.
The room still smelled like us. Heavily.
I walked over to the table where the Exit Card lay face down.
I picked it up. The laminate was cool and smooth. It was my safety net. My rip cord.
I looked at the chaotic nest of blankets and clothes on the floor. I looked at the empty water bottles and the pillows indented with the shapes of their heads.
I didn't tear the card up. That would be a lie; I wasn't ready to be defenseless. But I didn't put it back in my pocket, either.
I opened the drawer marked Z. DO NOT OPEN with the blue tape Kit had respected so carefully.
I dropped the card inside. I slid the drawer shut.
I wasn't leaving.
When I walked back to the front, Alfie was tuning his acoustic guitar, humming a melody that sounded suspiciously like a lullaby version of a Clash song.
"Alfie," I said.
He looked up, beaming. "Yeah, fox?"
"That vocal track," I said. "The one you uploaded."
"The manifesto?" he grinned.
"Yeah. The compression is still trash." I smirked, leaning against the doorframe. "Come to the booth. We're re-tracking it."
Alfie dropped the guitar. He was across the room in two strides, scooping me up and spinning me around, burying his face in my neck right over the claim mark Euan had left.
"You're bossy," he laughed against my skin. "I love it."
"I'm the producer," I corrected, patting his cheek. "Now get to work. We've got a revolution to mix."