We were in the loading dock of the O2 Academy in Leeds, a concrete throat that swallowed sound and spat out exhaust fumes. Load-out is usually a rhythmic sort of violence, flight cases slamming, wheels rattling over diamond-plate ramps, the shouting of local crew trying to get to the pub before closing. I lived for it. The ache in the shoulders, the physical proof that we’d done the job.
Zia was coiling a fifty-foot XLR cable near the monitor desk. She did it perfectly, over-under, honoring the copper. But then she paused.
She didn't just stop moving; she swayed. It was like watching a expertly spun top suddenly lose its gyroscopic center. Her knees went soft, bending inward, and she dropped the cable.
It hit the concrete with a dull slap that cut through the venue noise like a gunshot.
I was ten feet away, stacking the drum hardware. I froze.
She blinked, slow and heavy. Her head titled back, searching for air that wasn’t thick with diesel and Alpha sweat. Under the harsh work lights, her skin flushed a alarming, feverish pink.Her pupils weren't just blown; they were swallowing her irises whole, black holes in a sea of panic.
The scent hit me a second later.
Usually, she was invisible. Euan’s HEPA filters and her blockers kept her citrus-ozone signature ghost-quiet. But this was a spike. A biological riot. It smelled like a thunderstorm tearing through a grapefruit grove, sharp, electric, terrifyingly sweet. It punched me in the solar plexus, hard enough to wind me.
My Alpha brain roared one word:Claim.
It screamed at me to cross the distance. To scoop her up. To wrap her in my scent, espresso and molasses, until the world stopped shaking her. To carry her to the bus and build a nest so deep nobody could ever find her.
I shoved that instinct into a box and nailed it shut.
"Protocol," I ground out, the word tasting like iron.
I didn't run. Running is predatory. Running triggers the chase response.
I moved with deliberate heavy steps, making sure my boots scuffed the floor so she could hear me coming. I stopped six feet away.
"Z?" I kept my voice low, pitching it down into my chest.
She flinched. Her hands came up, pressing against her ears like the noise of existing was too loud. She made a sound, a thin, high whine that shattered my heart into jagged little pieces. She was burning up. The blockers had failed, or the stress had chewed right through them.
I signaled the local crew to clear the area with a sharp jerk of my head. They saw the look on my face, or maybe they smelled the burnt-sugar smoke suddenly rolling off Alfie near the ramp, and they vanished.
"Right," I murmured. "We’re doing this properly."
I spotted a fresh bottle of water on the staging case. I picked it up and set it on the floor, exactly four feet from where she was swaying. Inside her visual range, but not requiring her to move toward me to get it.
I walked to the dressing room door, generic, beige, unthreatening, and kicked the stop down so it stayed wide open. An exit route. A guarantee she wasn't trapped.
Then I looked at the far wall.
It was brick, painted a peeling grey. It was about eight feet from her.
I walked over to it. I slid down the masonry until I was sitting on the dirty concrete floor. I spread my legs slightly, planting my boots for stability, and rested my hands palm-up on my knees.
Open. Empty. Weaponless.
"Zia," I said. My voice was a rumble, steady as a bass drum.
She looked at me. Her eyes were frantic, darting between the door and me.
"Furniture or wall," I said. "Your call."
It was the code. The one we’d agreed on. I wasn't a man right now. I wasn't an Alpha. I was structure. I was a feature of the room. I was gravity, if she needed it to stop spinning.
She took a shuddering breath.
From the loading dock ramp, Alfie appeared. He was vibrating. Literally shaking with the force of holding himself back. The burnt sugar scent of him was caramelizing into something dark and desperate. He took one step toward us, his boots crossing the yellow safety line.
