Chapter 58
Rowan
T he second the cameras cut, it’s like the air shifts. The lights dim. The tension thins. The moment, that huge, terrifying, powerful moment, is over. Nora rises from her seat with that same grace she’s carried through the whole interview. No rush, no dramatics. Just a warm, quiet authority.
She steps toward me and clasps both my hands. “You were extraordinary,” she says, her voice low enough not to carry past us. “The world is going to see you now. Really see you.”
I don’t have the words, not yet. So, I squeeze her hands back and nod.
She releases me gently, says a few quiet farewells to the rest of the pack, and then her team starts packing up like clockwork, cords, lights, cameras, everything vanishing with practiced precision. It’s strange how quickly something that felt so huge can disappear. I exhale slowly.
I slip upstairs once Nora’s team starts tearing down. The pack scatters, Cole heads for his room with a muttered “need a damn minute,” Sébastien’s already pulling shirts from hangers and asking if linen breathes better than silk, and Laurent is of course; shirtless, with three options draped over his arm and no intention of choosing one yet.
I step into my room and close the door quietly behind me. The silk blouse I wore for the interview is beautiful, but it’s not me. Not for what’s next. The podcast isn’t about image. It’s about voice . Truth. Connection.
And ClipStream? That’s my home turf. My people. I want to feel good in my skin when I go Live. I walk to the wardrobe and pull out a soft, flowy midi dress, sun-faded blue with little cream-colored flowers, short sleeves, a square neckline that frames my collarbones and the marks along my throat like they belong there.
I pull my hair half-up, letting the breeze play with the ends. No heels, just barefoot for now, until I grab my sandals. A little peach balm on my lips, a swipe of color at my cheeks. Comfortable. Pretty. Me. When I look in the mirror, I don’t look polished. I look claimed. And it feels right.
I head down the stairs barefoot, the skirt of my dress brushing against my knees as I move. Outside, the golden hour light pours across the grounds, catching on the white stone columns of the portico. The air smells like lavender, cut grass, and sun-warmed stone.
The podcast setup is already in place. The mics are adjusted. Water glasses set. Lexi James’s team moves around quietly, respectful and professional. A few of them nod when they see me, but no one approaches. Not yet.
I walk over to the long table near the edge of the seating area, set with refreshments for later, and spot the flower arrangements. They’re beautiful. Loose, garden-style bundles of wild roses, snapdragons, eucalyptus, and pale hydrangea tucked into antique vases. Romantic and soft. But one of them is just slightly off center, the greenery a little too stiff.
I reach out and gently adjust a single stem, tilting it so the arrangement feels more balanced. There. Better. The simple act calms something in my chest. This... this is where I feel steady. Not under lights or in front of strangers. Here. In beauty. In intention. I take a deep breath and reach for my phone. Tap open ClipStream. Go Live.
The camera opens. I see myself; windswept curls, soft floral dress, bare feet on sunlit stone. My skin still glows faintly from the nerves of earlier, but my eyes are clear now. I smile at the camera.
“Hey, loves,” I say softly. “You’re not going to want to miss this. We’re doing something really special today, a podcast that’s airing live, and you’re getting the behind-the-scenes first look.”
I tilt the camera slightly, showing the portico, the flowers, the setup. The grounds behind it all bathed in late afternoon sun.
“Everything you’ve wanted to ask, everything you’ve been wondering since that photo dropped in Chicago... This is where we talk about it. No edits. No filters. Just us.”
The live viewer count starts ticking upward fast. Hearts float up the side of the screen. The comments start flooding in, some excited, some relieved, some just happy to see my face again.
I breathe them in like oxygen. Because these are my people. And this... this is my space. The hearts keep floating. Comments roll in fast, like a waterfall of voices I didn’t realize I missed until this moment.
“She’s backkkk!”
“We’ve missed you so much, Ro!”
“Okay but WHERE did you get that dress?”
“Is that the Kingston estate? Holy Omega dreams.”
I laugh softly and tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. “It’s good to see you too,” I say honestly. “I’ve missed this. You.”
I move the camera a bit, showing more of the portico behind me, the soft drapery, the lush floral arrangements, the podcast setup glowing under soft light.
“Are they really doing the podcast LIVE?”
“Are the Alphas coming too?”
“Yep,” I say with a grin. “Everything’s live. No cuts, no edits. And yes, the guys will be joining me any second now.”
“Who’s she talking to?” Laurent’s voice cuts in offscreen.
I turn just as he strolls into frame, dressed in a linen button-down that’s definitely unbuttoned way too low, sunglasses tucked into the front of his shirt, and barefoot like me. Of course.
He leans into the shot, grinning wide. “ Salut, ClipStream. Did you miss me?”
“LAURENTTTT :heart eyes emoji:.”
“There he is!”
“Of course he shows up shirtless-ish.”
“I’m literally wearing a shirt,” he mutters with mock offense, then winks at the camera.
Sébastien arrives next, carrying a glass of lemonade for each of us. “Mon c?ur,” he says, handing me mine before offering Laurent his. “Comporte-toi.”
“I always behave,” Laurent says, lounging against one of the columns.
“Wait, was that French???”
“He brought her lemonade :crying emoji: goals.”
“What’s the scent dynamic like IRL??”
Sébastien glances at the screen and reads a question aloud. “‘What’s the scent dynamic like in real life?’”
He smiles, first at me, then at the lens, his voice smooth and thoughtful.
“It’s... complex,” he says, his tone slipping into that soft, lyrical rhythm he gets when he’s in his element. “Layered. Like a well-crafted fragrance. There are top notes, what hits you first, and then heart notes, the emotional layer underneath. And then there are base notes, the anchors. The parts that stay.”
He glances at me again. “Rowan’s scent has shifted. It was warm before, like peaches and honeysuckle, but now it’s richer. There’s depth to it. Cobbler just out of the oven, a little nutmeg and cinnamon. The sweetness is still there, but now it clings. It claims.”
“Is this a poetry podcast now???”
“I NEED someone to describe me like that.”
“Cobbler. Clings. Claims. DEAD.”
“And the Alphas?” I prompt, already grinning.
He chuckles. “Cole is spice and cedarwood, clean and commanding. Massimo is amber and citrus, sharp with a hint of warmth. Laurent is all bourbon and blood orange: dangerous, but somehow addictive.”
Laurent smirks. “You forgot devastatingly handsome.”
Sébastien doesn’t even blink. “That note is silent.”
The chat explodes with reactions to Sébastien’s poetic breakdown. Hearts are flooding the screen. Someone drops a row of cobbler emojis, and I can’t help but laugh.
Then a new comment catches my eye; fast, bold, and immediate .
“Okay but... what does Xavier smell like??”
“YES. We’ve heard everything else. Give us the scent of the Shadow Alpha.”
“Don’t be shy, Ro. Spill.”
I glance toward the edge of the portico, he’s not here yet. But just the mention of his name sends a flutter down my spine. I glance at Sébastien. He lifts a brow. Clearly, he sees it too.
Laurent makes a low sound, not quite a laugh. “Mmm. That’s classified.”
But right as I open my mouth to answer, a familiar voice cuts in from behind me.
“Are you sure you want to go there?”
I turn, and so does the camera, just in time to catch Cole stepping into frame. Phone in hand. He drops it and smiles before dropping a quick kiss on my forehead.
He’s freshly changed, sleeves rolled, belt glinting in the low sun. Calm, in control, and radiating pure Alpha energy like it’s nothing. And the chat? Absolutely detonates.
“OH MY GOD, IT’S COLE.”
“He’s HOTTER than the photos.”
“That SMIRK. I’m sweating.”
“Did he just speak???”
He flashes the camera a smirk, like he knows exactly what he just did. I laugh and shake my head, hiding behind my lemonade.
“This is why I can’t take you guys anywhere.”
The comments are flying so fast I can barely read them.
“Blink if you’re in danger of mating right now.”
“Cole is giving ‘take me to dinner or ruin me’ and I’m not okay.”
Cole leans slightly toward the camera, gaze flicking over the chat before landing on one particular message. I can’t see which one, but I know the look in his eye when he’s about to cause trouble.
“Sweetheart,” he says, voice low and perfectly wicked, “you couldn’t handle dinner.”
The chat explodes again.
“DEAD.”
“I just fainted in public.”
“CALL 911. I need a mate and a therapist.”
I choke on a laugh, and Laurent lets out a full, shameless cackle. Then the air changes. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just, shifts . And I know why before I even see him.
Xavier steps into the portico like he’s been watching this whole time, calculating exactly when to make his entrance. His sleeves are rolled, his shirt still unbuttoned at the throat. He says nothing. Just walks past Cole, past Laurent, past Sébastien, and straight to me.
He doesn’t say a word. He reaches up and tucks a single curl behind my ear, fingers brushing the mark at my neck with the faintest pressure. Then he steps back and takes his seat beside me like it meant nothing. But the bond? It roars.
Not just mine. T heirs . I feel Sébastien’s breath catch beside me, a swell of warmth and quiet surprise radiating from him. Laurent shifts in his seat, his amusement spiking with a thread of satisfaction. Cole doesn’t move, but I can sense it in him too, a pulse of approval, of deep, quiet Alpha pride.
We’re not bonded to Xavier. Not yet. But I feel them react. Feel the heat of it ripple through our connection like a shared current. That one small gesture, calm, deliberate, undeniably possessive, set every one of them buzzing.
I don't look at him. I can't. Because if I do, I’m not sure I’ll be able to breathe.