Chapter Twenty-two
Jasmine
The shower had washed away the nightmare's residue but not its memory. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, wiping away the fogged condensation. My damp hair clung to my neck, and I stared at the face looking back at me. The circles under my eyes were darker this morning, purple-gray like old bruises, and my skin had that translucent quality that came from crying too hard for too long. But I was clean. That counted for something. I pulled on the soft clothes I’d chosen from the drawer: dark leggings, and an oversized cream sweater, that smelled like laundry detergent and something faintly floral.
The fabric was gentle against my skin, and I was grateful for that small mercy.
Breakfast had been waiting in the kitchen when I'd emerged.
Lucian had made pancakes, real ones from scratch, with fresh berries and maple syrup that looked expensive enough to have its own insurance policy.
He'd smiled when I'd walked in, a warm expression which reached his ocean-colored eyes, and gestured to the plate he'd already prepared.
“Eat,” he'd said simply. “You need your strength.”
I'd eaten because refusing would have felt like rejecting the care he was offering, and because my body needed fuel, even if my appetite was questionable.
The pancakes had been perfect, both fluffy and warm, the berries tart against the sweet syrup.
Lucian had sat across from me with his own coffee, not asking questions, just being present in that steady way he had.
Now I stood outside the recording studio door, my hand hovering over the handle, and tried to convince my feet to move forward.
The hallway was quiet except for the distant hum of the building's heating. Neutral walls, soft lighting, everything designed to be professional and calming. But my heart hammered in my chest as if it were trying to escape.
I'd agreed to this. Had said yes to recording, to preparing for the gala, to letting them hear me sing in a controlled environment instead of on street corners.
But agreement and action were different things, and the gap between them felt impossible to cross.
What if I broke another glass? Would they be angry with me?
Would they throw me out onto the streets?
Or worse, would they cage me up and beat away all sensibility?
I took a deep breath in. This wasn’t Bane. This wasn’t my old pack. These were new memories I was making, new opportunities to learn and develop my voice. The hardest thing to overcome was fear itself, and I wouldn’t let my past stop me anymore.
My hand closed around the doorknob. The metal was cool against my palm, solid and real. So, I turned the handle and pushed.
The studio opened before me, and I stopped just inside the threshold, breathing it in. I’d been here before. But every time I stepped into this space, I would get this warm feeling traveling through me and an urge to take that microphone and sing my heart out.
Professional didn't begin to cover it. The space was divided into two sections: the vocal booth, where I'd be singing, and the control room, separated by a large window of thick glass.
Wood paneling covered the exterior of the booth, both dark and rich.
Textured foam was used for soundproofing, in geometric patterns that created both elegance and depth.
In the center of the vocal booth stood the microphone.
Through the glass window, I saw Kade in the control room.
He stood behind the mixing board, his posture rigid, shoulders tight with tension that radiated even through the separation.
My brow furrowed as I watched him discuss something with the sound engineer.
Then he turned and saw me, and immediately his shoulders relaxed, his eyes warming as he gave me a welcoming smile.
Theo stood near the vocal booth door, inside the studio with me. His presence was familiar and safe after last night. He didn't smile, didn't speak, just stood there being steady in a way that helped my racing heart slow fractionally.
I took a step forward, then another. I reached for the microphone, adjusting it. The mechanism glided, and I positioned it so it sat about level with my mouth. Professional distance, I remembered from what Kade had taught me before. Close enough to capture sound, far enough to avoid harsh plosives.
“Take your time,” Kade's voice came through speakers I couldn't see, surrounding me. “There's no rush.”
The kindness in his tone made my throat tight. I nodded, not trusting my voice yet, and closed my eyes.
Breathing. I needed to focus on breathing.
In through my nose, expanding my diaphragm, feeling my ribs spread.
Hold for a count of four. Out through my mouth, controlled and steady.
My mother had taught me this years ago, when she'd still been teaching me songs instead of trying to stop them from taking me.
The memory of her voice wrapped around me like a blanket, and when I sang, sometimes I could almost hear her harmonizing with me from wherever she’d gone.
I opened my eyes and found Theo's. He nodded once, encouraging, and something in my chest settled.
I could do this.
“Ready when you are,” Kade's voice said again.
I took one more breath, deep and steadying, and began.
The first notes came out weak, thinner than I wanted.
My voice shook on the opening phrase, wavering like a candle flame in the wind, and I heard how small I sounded even with the studio's acoustics shaping the tone.
The professional equipment made every flaw audible—the breath support that wasn't quite there, the tension in my throat restricting my range.
I pushed past it, forced the next phrase out despite wanting to stop, to apologize, to run.
Through the glass, I watched Kade. His posture remained rigid, his hands still spread across the mixing board like he was bracing himself. His jaw was tight, and I couldn't read his expression. Was he disappointed? Regretting this whole arrangement?
The fear wanted to strangle my voice completely.
But then I looked at Theo, and his expression was open and encouraging. Not judging. Not measuring me against some impossible standard. Just listening, believing I could do this.
I pulled in another breath and pushed more air through the phrase.
The song was one I'd written myself months ago on a cold night when the loneliness had felt like it might crush me.
Lyrics about finding home in unexpected places, about learning to trust again after betrayal.
The melody was simple but honest, and I knew it like I knew my own heartbeat.
My voice steadied slightly on the second verse.
The shaking smoothed out as I found my center, as I stopped thinking about the equipment, the watching Alphas, and just focused on the song itself.
On the words and what they meant. On the melody that had lived in my head for months, waiting to be seen.
The studio's acoustics were incredible. I heard my voice differently here. It was richer, with harmonics I'd never noticed on the street.
My breath support improved as muscle memory took over.
I'd been singing for years and had developed my technique with no formal training, just through practice and observation.
Now that technique activated, my diaphragm engaging properly, my throat relaxing to let the sound flow instead of forcing it.
The song built to the chorus, and my voice grew stronger. I felt it happening, felt the confidence spreading through my chest and into my soul. The notes came easier, fuller, carrying emotion I didn't have to manufacture because it lived in the lyrics themselves.
Through the glass, I saw Kade's shoulders drop. Just slightly, just enough to notice. His fingers, which had been spread tense across the mixing board, relaxed. One hand lifted to adjust something—a dial or slider—his movements became fluid instead of rigid.
He was responding to my voice. To me.
The realization sent a thrill through my chest that had nothing to do with the song.
I had power here. My voice, the thing I'd used to survive on the streets, was affecting this Alpha who commanded respect and resources I couldn't imagine.
He was leaning into the sound I was creating, and that knowledge made me braver.
I pushed into the second chorus with more force, more emotion. The lyrics talked about walls coming down, and I sang them like I meant it, like maybe I now believed it could be true.
Theo smiled. I caught it in my peripheral vision, not wanting to break my focus on the song, but I saw the expression transform his scarred face.
Warmth flooded his dark eyes, and something that looked like pride curved his mouth.
He shifted his weight, settling in to listen as though he could stay there all day.
Movement at the control room door pulled my attention briefly.
Lucian appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.
His gaze fixed on me through the glass, and his expression.
.. God, his expression was pure pride. Like he was watching something remarkable, something worth celebrating.
Three Alphas were watching me, and instead of feeling trapped or threatened, I felt powerful.
The song's bridge approached, the part where the melody climbed higher, and the emotions intensified.
I'd always struggled with this section on the street, worried about drawing too much attention, about making myself too visible.
But here, in this soundproofed booth with these Alphas who'd promised I was safe, I let myself go for it.
My voice soared into the higher register, clear and strong. The note held steady, and I heard how good it sounded. The studio captured every distinction, the slight vibrato I usually tried to hide, the emotional quality that made the lyrics feel lived in rather than performed.
Kade leaned forward now, his entire focus narrowed to me. Both hands rested on the mixing board, but he wasn't adjusting anything anymore. He was just listening, captivated, tracking me through the glass.
I'd never had an audience like this. Street crowds were transient, distracted, always ready to move on to the next thing. But these three Alphas were completely present, their attention a weight I could feel even through the separation of glass and space.
The bridge resolved back into the final chorus, and I threw everything into it.
All the fear, hope, and desperate desire to be something more than broken.
All the months of surviving alone, of singing for scraps, of believing I'd never have a proper home again.
The lyrics became a promise to myself as much as a song.
It spoke of letting go and learning to trust again.
It was time I stopped being afraid and let myself be seen and heard without being destroyed.
Through the glass, I watched all three Alphas. Kade's expression had softened completely, the rigid control melting away to reveal something vulnerable underneath. Lucian's smile had widened, genuine and warm. Theo nodded slightly, encouragement and affirmation all at once.
They were with me. In this moment, singing this song, we were connected in a way I didn't fully understand but felt all the way through my bones.
The last phrase approached. I pulled in one last deep breath and gave it everything I had left. The note sustained, pure and strong, then resolved down to the tonic with a gentle fall that felt like coming home.
Silence.
The song ended, and for a moment the world held its breath. I stood at the microphone, my heart pounding for entirely different reasons now, and felt the weight of what I'd just done. I'd sung. Really sung, not just survived through a performance, but created something beautiful.
The silence stretched. Charged with a meaning I couldn't quite name. Heavy with something that felt like possibility.
Then Kade's voice came through the speakers, surrounding me in the intimate space of the vocal booth. His tone carried an approval that made my chest warm and tight simultaneously.
“Jasmine.” He paused, and I watched his throat work as he swallowed. “That was incredible.”
The words settled over me. It was a validation I hadn't known I was desperate for, coming from an Alpha whose opinion I'd convinced myself not to care about.
But I did care. God, I cared so much it hurt.
“Play it back,” Lucian's voice joined Kade's through the speakers, excited, and amazed. “She needs to hear what we just heard.”
I pulled the headphones off, and my hands shook again, but this time it was adrenaline and something like joy rather than fear.
Kade's hands moved over the mixing board with practiced ease, and then my voice filled the studio through the monitors.
I heard myself as they'd heard me. The studio had captured every detail.
The lyrics were emotional, igniting my core.
But mostly I was amazed at the technical skill I'd developed without even realizing it.
I sounded good. Really good. Not perfect, but honest and powerful, real.
Through the glass, I watched Kade watching me, and I saw the moment he registered my reaction. Saw the satisfaction in his expression when he realized I could hear my worth, could recognize what I'd created.
Theo moved then, crossing to where I stood, and pulled me into a hug that lifted me slightly off my feet. “Honey, that was beautiful,” he said against my hair, his voice rough with emotion. “You're going to blow everyone away at the gala.”
The prediction should have terrified me. Instead, wrapped in Theo's arms with my voice still playing from the monitors and Kade's approval warming me from across the glass, I let myself believe it might be true.
Maybe I could do this. Maybe I could be more than what my old pack had made me. Maybe my voice, the one thing that had kept me alive through the worst months of my life, could finally give me the freedom to live again.