My skin felt tight. Too tight. A slow, rolling heat began to curl in my lower belly, different from the sharp cramps of the previous days. This wasn't pain; it was heavy, liquid pressure.
I shifted in the ergonomic chair Euan had insisted they rent for me. The friction of denim against my skin sent a shiver up my spine that had nothing to do with the drafty venue.
Four in. Six out.
I checked my watch. My suppressants were due in an hour. But the biological clock in my head was ticking faster than the one on my wrist.
"Let's run 'Lightning Strike'," Alfie called out. "Full volume. Let’s wake the ghosts up."
The band kicked in. The wall of sound hit me, glorious and massive. The subs rattled my ribcage. The lights swept the room, passing over the FOH booth.
For a second, in the flash of a strobe, I saw them not as musicians, but ascreatures. Alfie, prowling the edge of the stage, eyes wild. Kit, a blur of violent motion behind the kit, anchoring the chaos. Euan, standing still amidst his towers of tech, manipulating the noise like a sorcerer.
The scent hit me then.
Distance didn't matter. The venue’s airflow didn't matter. The bond acted like a hardline cable, transmitting exactly what they were putting out.
Desire. Protection. Claim.
It slammed into me, triggering a biological response so violent I gasped, dropping my iPad.
The heat spiked. It wasn't a wave; it was a tsunami. My vision blurred, the colors of the music washing out into a blinding, hazy white. My scent blockers, the ones I paid a fortune for, disintegrated under the pressure.
Not here. Not now.
I gripped the edge of the console. I needed to stabilize the mix. I needed to ride the faders.
But my hands were shaking uncontrollably.
"Zia?" Euan’s voice cut through the mix. Not over the PA, but directly into my in-ear monitors. He’d isolated the channel. "Your heart rate just jumped to 140. Moving to intercept."
"No," I choked into the talkback. "Stay there."
"Z, you're spiking," Kit’s voice joined the private channel. The drums didn't stop, but the rhythm faltered for a microsecond. "We can smell it from here. It’s neon."
"Finish the song," I commanded, though my voice lacked its usual steel. "I'm... I'm taking five. Green room."
I didn't wait for an acknowledgment. I ripped my in-ears out and bolted.
The walk to the green room felt miles long. Every step was a battle against gravity. My body felt heavy, swollen, hypersensitive. The fabric of my t-shirt brushing my nipples felt like sandpaper. Typical pre-heat symptoms, but amplified by a factor of three.
I shoved through the green room door and slammed it shut, engaging the deadbolt with trembling fingers.
It was a small room, smelling of cheap leather cleaner and old carpet. I collapsed onto the sofa, curling into a ball, trying to breathe through the dizzying waves of vertigo.
This wasn't a "suppressant wobble." This was a full-system overrides. The dam had broken.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I fished it out to find a text from Rowan.
Euan says your biometric readings just went vertical. Do I need to clear the building?
I stared at the screen, trying to focus through the haze.
It’s hitting. The big one.
Suppressant failure?
No. Bond acceleration. My body is rejecting the chemicals. It wants…
