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 aboutthe 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 expressiontransform 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.
