"Exactly." I looked at Alfie. "You didn't sing a love song, Alfie. You sang a manifesto."
Alfie’s face transformed. The guilt evaporated, replaced by a slow, dawning awe. "I sang a manifesto," he repeated, testing the weight of it. "Yeah. Yeah, I did."
"But Gareth," Kit warned. "He’s slippery. He’ll verify the bond just to spite us."
"Let him try," I said, feeling a flash of cold, sharp anger. "He doesn't know my name. He doesn't know my face. He just knows I exist. And if he tries to doxx me..." I looked at Euan. "We have the honey-token trap ready?"
Euan nodded, a dangerous glint in his grey eyes. "The active bouquet-cam sting. We haven't deployed it yet, but the infrastructure is live."
"Good." I closed the laptop.
I turned on the stool to face them. My pack.
They looked exhausted. They looked worried. They smelled like a mix of distress and the heavy, lingering scent of sex and claiming.
"I'm not running," I said quietly. "I meant what I said last night. I want the full spectrum. But we do this my way. Two constraints."
"Name them," Kit said immediately.
"One: Nobody confirms my identity until I say so. I stay FoxTail until I’m ready to be Zia to the world."
"Done," Alfie swore. "I won't even say your name in my sleep."
"Two, whatever happens with the press... this bus stays a bubble. When the door closes, we’re not a political statement. We’re just us. No strategizing in the nest."
"Copy that," Kit said, his voice thick with relief. He stepped forward, breaking his own self-imposed distance, and wrapped his arms around my waist, burying his face in my stomach. "Just us. Furniture and walls and whatever you need."
I rested my hand on his head, gripping the short hair at the nape of his neck. The contact grounded me instantly.
Alfie let out a long, shuddering breath and slumped against my leg. Euan simply reached out and took my hand, pressing his thumb into my wrist, checking my pulse.
It was steady.
"Right then," Cal said, placing a fresh mug of tea on the counter with a definitiveclink. "Crisis managed. Now, who wants breakfast? Alfie, you look like you’re about to faint, and Kit needs protein if he’s going to keep looking threatening."
"Pancakes," Alfie mumbled into my thigh. "But only if Z eats first."
"I'm eating," I promised. "I'm starving."
We ate. It was chaotic and loud and messy. Alfie spilled syrup on the counter. Kit ate four eggs in silence, watching me over the rim of his coffee mug like I might disappear if he blinked. Euan lectured us on the glycemic index of the bread while stealing bites of my toast.
But underneath the domestic noise, the threat was still humming. My phone kept buzzing on the counter. Rowan was likely fighting a war in a boardroom somewhere. Gareth Blake was plotting.
I didn't care.
I had three Alphas who would burn the industry down before they let a single person touch me without a backstage pass.
After breakfast, I went back to the rear lounge to grab my laptop charger.
The room still smelled like us. Heavily.
I walked over to the table where the Exit Card lay face down.
I picked it up. The laminate was cool and smooth. It was my safety net. My rip cord.
I looked at the chaotic nest of blankets and clothes on the floor. I looked at the empty water bottles and the pillows indented with the shapes of their heads.
I didn't tear the card up. That would be a lie; I wasn't ready to be defenseless. But I didn't put it back in my pocket, either.
