Heat Unscripted (Omega Stream #6)

Chapter 1

ONE

Isobel

The booth smelled like me, and that was the problem.

Most nights all I caught in here was the dry, scentless nothing of acoustic foam, the faint plastic of the gear, the coffee gone cold by my elbow.

Tonight my own scent hung in the padded air, warm and sweet and wrong, and I couldn’t open a window to get rid of it.

There were no windows. That was the whole point of the booth.

My stomach turned over slowly. A low hum had set up shop in my throat, deep down where no character lived, and it had nothing to do with the script glowing on my monitor.

Tessa’s words sat there, a passage from Alpha’s Oath so hot it should’ve come with a warning label.

I gave these books a voice for a living.

I lived in other people’s surrender. My own life had shrunk down to the size of my vocal cords, and tonight it felt smaller than that.

The suppressants weren’t holding. I’d taken them on schedule, the way I always did, the way I trusted my own hands, and they felt like a fistful of wet sand thrown at a tide.

This wasn’t fatigue. This wasn’t too many sessions and not enough sleep.

This was the thing I’d been outrunning for eleven years, and it had finally caught up.

And it had timing. The charity finale was two weeks out. Twenty-four hours of live broadcast, no edits, no retakes, nowhere to hide, my voice going out raw to anyone who cared to listen. Eleven years of holding the line, and my body had picked the home stretch to stop negotiating.

I flicked the comms switch. “Ready for take one.”

“Ready when you are, Gretan.” Cillian, instant, that low even tenor filling my headphones. I knew the sound of him the way I knew the grain of the desk under my hands. He was across town in his own studio, running a remote tuning session on my hardware like it was nothing.

My ghost in the machine. Careful, invisible, always there.

I pulled a slow breath and stepped into the voice of the warrior queen on the edge of giving in. Tessa’s words were a plea, raw and stripped down. I knew exactly how they should land. I’d done a thousand versions of this moment, lived inside surrender more times than I could count.

“I have fought empires for a footnote in a history book,” I said, dropping into the gravel contralto that had paid for this house, this booth, this whole careful life. “But for you, I would—”

It broke. Not a pretty crack I could sell later as a choice. The gravel just went to dust in my mouth, gone mid-word, and a dry cough tore through the line in its place. Ugly. Involuntary. Final.

I slammed my palm onto the mute button and held it there till my knuckles went white against the plastic.

My own breathing sawed in my ears. Across the booth, behind the screen, my reflection stared back at me, pale and wide-eyed, auburn hair coming out of its bun in three directions, my glasses sliding down my nose.

The Faceless Siren. A vocal icon who didn’t even own a face.

Right now I was just biology coming apart in a very expensive box.

Nothing from Cillian. He knew the rule. He never commented on a take unless I asked, never offered a note I hadn’t requested, never let his reaction touch the line. He just waited, giving me all the space I hadn’t asked for and badly needed.

I cleared my throat. It hurt, faintly, in a way that scared me.

I drank some water that did nothing for the heat sitting low in my belly now and climbing.

The hum was stronger. I could feel it in my back teeth.

It wanted out. It wanted to sing the one song I’d refused to let it sing for years, the one I’d drowned in chemicals and professionalism and pure stubborn will.

“Take two,” I bit out, keeping it clipped.

I started again and just shoved the line forward with brute force, the blunt tool I always reached for when the good ones failed. I got further this time. I made it to the climax, the moment where everything Charlotte had bled for came down to one impossible thing.

“…I would burn it all.”

But the break that came after wasn’t hers.

It had never been hers. A thread of heat unspooled from somewhere deep in my throat, a thin wavering note that belonged to no character I’d ever voiced.

Too high. Too sweet. Too honest. A pathetic little whine, built out of want, dead almost before it was born, like my own body was ashamed of it.

I didn’t reach for mute this time. I let my forehead drop to the cool metal of the mic stand and shut my eyes.

He heard it.

Of course he heard it. Every breath, every click and pop, every stray frequency was data to him, a signal in a stream his brain read like a language.

“One more,” I whispered, to no one, to the empty booth. A promise and a threat in the same two words.

I straightened up. My hands were shaking, both of them, and I ignored that too and pushed my hair back off my face.

I didn’t look at the script. I’d known the words since the first read, the way I always did by the time I stepped in here.

Instead I let the feeling take me. The one I’d been white-knuckling all evening.

The heat, low and spreading and completely indifferent to what I wanted.

The wanting that had no object I could name.

The cellular, bone-deep certainty that something in me was surrendering whether I’d signed off on it or not.

“I have fought empires,” I began, and the voice that came out wasn’t Charlotte’s.

It wasn’t the Velvet Narrator either, that careful built instrument I’d spent years filing down into something reliable.

It was a stranger’s voice. And then it hit me, cold as a glass of water in the face. It was mine.

The rasp was gone. What replaced it was thick and warm at the edges. Steamed milk and honey, a scent you could hear. Every word came out wrapped in it, slow and velvet, no business in a warrior queen’s mouth, no place in any recording I’d ever made.

“…for you, I would burn it all.”

The last words weren’t spoken. They left me as a sigh, low and cracked.

A broken little purr that had no business near my throat in a working session.

It was a sound for somewhere private and close, a den, not a booth under the buzz of fluorescent light.

A soft musical whine, and it carried a question my rational mind wouldn’t say out loud even as my body broadcast it down a crystal-clean line for anyone to hear.

A mate-call. Pure. Undeniable. Biology with no costume on at all.

My eyes flew open. The horror caught up with me a beat later, ice in my gut. I’d just sent my most carefully guarded secret, the thing I’d built my whole career around hiding, straight into the ears of the best audio engineer in the business.

My stomach dropped through the floor. I lunged for the talkback switch with a thousand half-formed apologies and cover stories already crowding my throat, fighting to get out first.

Cillian got there before my finger landed.

“Hold on, Gretan. Running a level check.” The same calm he always had, that steady tenor dropped like a cool stone into the churn of my panic, sinking slowly, taking nothing down with it.

I froze, hand hanging over the controls, not touching anything.

A new window opened on the main monitor, code scrolling too fast to read.

The waveform from my last take came up on the display, jagged and pulsing and damning, everything I’d just done laid out in plain ugly data.

His cursor moved across the screen, unhurried, and highlighted a narrow band buried deep in the lower register, a sliver of the spectrum so precise I hadn’t known you could even pull it out on its own.

A few keystrokes, economical. A quiet drag of the mouse.

The frequency dropped out of the playback, and not a hard cut that would leave a scar in the waveform either, something cleaner than that.

He buried it. Folded the sound back into the baseline of the recording with a new filter, smoothed it over with a quiet practiced confidence that left no trace.

The waveform settled into a flat, unremarkable Beta read.

“Okay.” His voice came back, not a single thing shifted in it. Just a tech reading off a routine note. “Got a small resonance spike around 2kHz. Filter was out of calibration. All set. Go from the top of the line when you’re ready.”

A resonance spike. A filter out of calibration.

He handed me the lie with such clean technical confidence that my frantic, lurching heart grabbed it with both hands.

An equipment issue. A calibration error.

That made sense. That made complete, bearable sense.

It had to make sense, because the alternative was not something I would face in this booth, on this night, with this much still riding on it.

I took a shaky breath and let the relief roll over me, slow and dizzy, leaving me hollowed out and grateful and stupidly close to tears. “Right. Thanks.”

He was a perfectionist. He was always tinkering, always finding and fixing things I didn’t even know were broken before they could do any damage.

That was just what he did. It was who he was.

Cillian Tonewick, my sound architect, quietly solved problems I hadn’t asked him to solve, the way he always had, until I’d stopped questioning it a long time ago.

His steady presence settled around me like a worn-in sweater, barely holding the frayed edges of my unraveling life together.

“From the top, then.” Quieter than a whisper, and not really for Cillian. More for the trembling thing crouched inside me.

I needed this take to go right. If it didn’t, he might stop believing in the filter. He might start to wonder whether I was an Omega after all.