Fox
SEATTLE STADIUM PROTOCOL
Saint, Colton, Cody, and Hunter file out of the bus to do a check over the venue we’ve just arrived at. It’s my turn to stay back with Brittney, and I’m looking forward to the time with her.
I nod and follow him outside, looking back at Brittney on the couch. “I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” she says, bouncing on the couch, excited about the instrument.
The cardboard box is ordinary in every way: brown, branded, a crisp white label with Brittney’s name and the venue’s routing address.
I run through the checklist before I peel back the tape, slow and methodical.
I pop the last tab and flip the flaps open. Nestled inside, wrapped in bubble wrap, is an instrument case. Sleek, black, and zipped shut. A folded packing slip is tucked inside the case’s mesh pocket.
The bus rocks slightly as I go back inside. Brittney has Hunter’s hoodie zipped up to her chin while she sits there waiting for me.
“It’s here.”
Her face lights up. She holds out her hands, eyes zeroed in on the box. “Pass it over!”
I do, and she practically snatches it out of my hand.
She’s already digging through the bubble wrap, careful but greedy. The case comes free with a satisfying pop. She runs her hand over the logo, then looks up at me, half-guilty, half-giddy.
“Is it safe?” she asks, and the way she says it, I know she’s not talking about the instrument.
“Already scanned it,” I say.
She unzips the case, slow at first, then faster. Inside is a gleaming electric violin, bone-white with black hardware, every edge still wrapped in cellophane. She makes a noise, not quite a gasp, not quite a laugh, and runs her finger along the fingerboard like it’s the spine of a cat.
“You should have let us buy it for you,” I say, trying to sound teasing, not critical. “If you wanted it that bad, you know you don’t have to spend your own—”
“It’s fine,” she says, not looking up. “I bought this with my first check from the tour and that…. feels good.”
“Yeah, but—” I stop myself. I want to say she’s pack and all the money, all the everything, belongs to the pack.
That’s how it’s supposed to work. But the words turn sour in my mouth, and I let them die.
If she wants to feel the pride of spending her tour money on an instrument for the first time, then I won’t take that away from her.
She lifts the violin out, reverent, holding it up to the light. The body is polished to a mirror, the bridge delicate and perfect. She cradles it.
“I’ve always wanted to try the electric violin, but my parents thought it wasn’t dignified,” she confesses.
I shake my head. “And you never have to worry about what they think again.”
She blushes and nods like she believes me.
I clear my throat. “If you want to use it, I can listen, or not listen. I don’t have to be here.”
I would have to stand right outside the bus since I’m her security right now, but I could at least leave her alone here on the bus.
She studies me, gaze sharp. “Do you want to leave?”
“No. Not even a little.” It comes out faster than I mean. I can feel the tips of my ears burn.
She grins. “Then stay.”
So I do. I sink into the booth opposite her, arms folded, watching her fingers fuss with the latches and the bow hair. She’s acting as if she lets go, the whole thing might vanish.
I want to say, you deserve this. You deserve all of it, and more. I want to tell her that her happiness is my new job description, that every cell in my body wants to see her like this, bright and open and safe.
Instead, I say, “You know the twins are going to be jealous I heard you first.”
She laughs, the sound real and bright, and leans back against the seat.
She taps her thumb against the case, then looks up at me, eyes softer. “Thanks for not making a big deal out of it.”
I shrug again, pretending like it’s nothing, even though it’s everything.
She looks around, then stands up. “Let’s work in the nest.”
I stand up to follow her as she migrates to the nest at the back of the bus with the violin case tucked under her arm.
She moves through the aisle with omega grace.
I follow, trying not to hover, but she glances over her shoulder and smiles at me.
Brittney drops cross-legged onto the pile of blankets and pillows with the violin across her lap, then starts fiddling with the fine tuners.
She moves with a precision I’ve only ever seen on stage, fingers strong, movements tiny and exact.
The instrument is new, but the ritual is old.
“You’ve been researching it already?” I ask and she nods.
“I think I know what to do, but it’s always different when you get the instrument in your hand.”
She starts playing, tongue poking out in concentration.
At first, the sound is thin and a little unappealing, but she works through it, testing and refining it.
The sound improves with each attempt. She hums a few bars to herself, matching the pitch, then runs the bow across the string.
The next note is awkward, too raw and too loud in the hush of the bus.
She flinches, then laughs at herself, the tension breaking.
I settle on the edge of the nest, far enough not to crowd her but close enough to feel the static charge of her focus. She glances up, eyes sharp, then goes back to tuning. A few more seconds, and she tries again. This time the note is brighter, more sure.
She tries a few scales, her fingers flying up the neck, and already she’s nailing it. The notes are clean and quick.
“You’re getting good at this, scary fast,” I confess.
She stops, lets the bow drop to her knee, and looks at me for real. “Instruments have always come naturally to me. Piano, drums, guitar, strings. It’s the only thing I was ever good at.” She shrugs, but the smile is proud.
“You’re good at plenty of things,” I say.
She scoffs, starts running the bow again, this time working through one of Oli’s songs that’s been stuck in my head for weeks.
I watch the way her arms move, the way her back straightens as she gets into it.
Every measure, she looks more and more like herself, the raw edges smoothing out, and the caution dropping away.
“Instruments came easy,” she says, keeping her eyes on the fingerboard. “The rest of life, not so much.” Her thumb shifts on the bow, and I notice one of her bond marks on her wrist.
She changes key, launching into a run of quick, ugly scales that sound a little off. She grins at my wince. “Sorry. There’s still a learning curve.”
“I like it,” I say. “It’s real.”
She keeps playing, the notes looping into something more complicated, half-improvised and all hers.
The sound fills the space, bouncing off the aluminum walls and catching in the fuzz of the blankets.
I let myself melt into it, the hum of the bus engine and the swirl of her music creating a cocoon around us.
Brittney shifts, pulling her knees up, violin balanced perfectly.
“My parents used to make me play for their friends,” she says.
“Like a trained monkey at dinner parties, fundraisers, or whatever they wanted.” She doesn’t stop playing, but the music goes sad, a lull in the tempo.
“I’d do it and everyone would clap and then forget I was there. ”
She glances at me, reading my face. “It’s lucky they didn’t ruin music for me completely.”
“It’s lucky for everyone. The world deserves to hear you,” I say, and she laughs, soft and small, but the sadness lingers.
The sun’s gotten lower outside. Late afternoon light seeps through the tinted windows, gold and syrupy, turning every thread of her hair into a halo.
She squints against it, but doesn’t move away.
The sound of the violin blends with the light, everything in this moment vibrating at the same frequency.
She finishes the run, lets the bow fall slack, then props the violin in her lap. For a second, she just breathes, allowing the quiet in.
I watch her, the way her chest rises and falls, the way she hugs her own arms, trying to contain something too big for her ribs. The bond is a warm ache in my chest; I can feel it thrum between us, even when we’re not touching.
She tucks the violin away, careful not to smudge the finish, then shifts closer to me on the nest. The air is thick with her scent, toffee and hazelnut. I’m not an alpha, not even close, but I can still feel her pull and the gravity of her need.
She leans into me, shoulder to shoulder, and I let my hand brush hers. She doesn’t flinch.
Time blurs in the nest. I don’t know how long we sit there, ten minutes, thirty, maybe longer, but every second feels stacked on top of the last, building a wall around us. The rest of the bus is silent. I can hear my own heartbeat and Brittney’s breathing.
I watch her. Not in the way an alpha watches prey or a rival, but in the way you stare at a photograph you know by heart and still find something new every time.
Her knees are pulled tight to her chest, arms around them, with her hair spilling over her face in messy waves.
There’s a little groove between her eyebrows when she thinks too hard. I want to smooth it away with my thumb.
I look down at my leg. The bond mark is there, reminding me how Brittney feels about me.
It still doesn’t feel real that she picked me.
Alphas are supposed to claim, supposed to take, supposed to hold the world together with their will alone.
Betas like me are backup singers, backup plans, the sturdy, invisible glue that keeps things from flying apart.
Not the center of anything, let alone the center of her.
But there it is. Her mark on my skin, my scent tangled with hers, the bond humming in my bones every time she’s near.
I feel her watching me now. I look up, and she’s leaning closer. She’s searching my face for something, maybe a question, maybe an answer.