"Is that her? Is that the engineer?"
"Show us the bond mark! Give us a smile, love!"
I kept my head up. I didn't hide behind Kit’s bulk. I walked matching Alfie’s stride, keeping a professional two feet of distance between us.
Gareth Blake was waiting at the mouth of the gauntlet. He looked immaculate in a tailored suit that probably cost more than my entire recording rig, but the scent coming off him, cloying bergamot and slick, artificial syrup, curdled the air.
He stepped forward, arms wide, grinning like a shark who’d just smelled chum in the water.
"There they are!" Gareth boomed, playing to the cameras. "The dream team! Manchester is ready for some romance, eh?"
He tried to usher us together, his hand reaching for my shoulder to guide me into a photo op next to Alfie.
Kit moved. It was subtle, just a shift of weight, but suddenly he was between Gareth’s hand and my body.
"Don't touch the producer," Kit said. His voice didn't rise, but it carried that low, subsonic frequency that triggers a primal flight response in lesser mammals.
Gareth’s smile didn't falter, but his eyes tightened. He swiveled to the press, gesturing to me.
"Come on, then! The fans are dying to know. Are we finally announcing a bond for the rollout? Brand safety, right? A nice, tidy romance to sell the tour?"
A microphone was shoved into my face. A dozen recorders pressed in. The air was thick with aggressive curiosity.
Is she yours? Did you claim her?
Alfie opened his mouth, his scent flaring hot and sharp, ready to snap.
I cut him off. I didn't do it with a gesture. I stepped into the space.
"They're not 'my' Alphas," I said.
The crowd quieted. The projection of my voice, trained in vocal booths to cut through a mix, held the air.
"We function as a unit," I continued, locking eyes with a reporter who was trying to get a shot of my neck, looking for bite marks I’d covered with a high collar. "We choose each other daily. Based on the work. Based on respect."
"But the lyrics," a journalist shouted. "‘Ghost in the machine.’ It’s a love song, isn’t it?"
"It’s a policy statement," I corrected flatly. "Consent is not merch. We don't sell it at the table."
Gareth laughed, a nervous, brittle sound. "Very modern! But surely, the chemistry?—"
Alfie hijacked the moment. He didn't shout. He stepped up beside me, not in front, matching my line. He leaned into the cluster of microphones, his pink coat brushing my arm.
"Boundaries are punk," Alfie said. He flashed that lethal, wide grin that usually made stadiums scream, but there was no humor in his eyes. "You want a story? Here’s the story. We ask before we touch. We ask before we tweet. And we ask before we spin someone’s biology into a promo code for the label."
He looked directly at Gareth.
"If you're here for the romance, you're at the wrong gig. If you're here for the revolution, welcome to the show."
"Is that a confirmation of the Omega Rider?" another reporter yelled.
"That," calm, cool Euan said, stepping up on my other side, "is a confirmation that our producer is out of your pay grade. Clear the lane."
Tammy Rook, our head of security, a massive Alpha female who smelled like black pepper and cedar smoke, materialized from the shadows of the venue door. She didn't even have to speak. She just walked forward, creating a wake of displacement that forced the photographers back.
"Load-in active," Tammy barked. "Credentials or pavement. Move."
We swept past Gareth. I saw his smile fracture. I smelled the sour spike of his annoyance, like vinegar poured into milk.
