When the bathroom door clicked shut down the hall, the three of us slumped back against the pillows.
"Jesus," Kit breathed, rubbing his face with both hands. "Did that actually happen?"
"Data confirms," Euan said, closing his eyes. "We bonded. We didn't Claim, the bite wasn't sunk deep enough for the permanent physiological shift, but the energetic bond is sealed."
"She didn't run," I said to the ceiling. "She opened the door. She unlocked it."
"She let us knot," Kit pointed out, looking at me with a grin that was all sharp teeth. "You look like the cat that got the cream, Riot."
"I feel like the cat that got the cream, the fish, and the cushion," I shot back, stretching my arms over my head. My joints popped. "I feel amazing. I feel like I could sing for three days straight."
"You sang plenty last night," Euan muttered, though there was no heat in it. "Your vocal cords are going to be shredded for the Manchester gig."
"Worth it," I said. "Whatever. I'll hum."
I rolled out of the nest, needing to find my phone. I hadn't checked it since we left the stage at the Barrowlands. I needed to see the schedule, check in with Rowan, maybe send a smug text to nobody in particular.
My leather trousers were in a heap by the door. I fished my phone out of the back pocket.
The screen lit up.
And kept lighting up.
Notifications were cascading down the glass like rain. Text messages. Twitter mentions. Instagram tags. Missed calls from Rowan. Missed calls from the label.
My stomach dropped. The warm, golden glow of the morning evaporated, replaced by the cold, acrid taste of adrenaline.
"Lads," I said, my voice tight.
"What?" Kit looked up from pulling on his jeans.
"Phone's blowing up."
"Ignore it," Kit said. "We're in the bubble."
"I can't," I said, unlocking the screen. "It's Rowan. Ten missed calls. And a text from Gareth Blake, which usually means the apocalypse has started."
I opened Rowan's message thread.
(07:30 AM): Alfie. Call me.
(07:45 AM): Do not open Twitter. Do not post.
(08:15 AM): We have a containment breach.
(08:17 AM): You changed the lyrics, Alfred.
I froze.
The Barrowlands. The encore. The "heartbeat" song.
I saw the lightning strike the ground...
We want to learn, not take.
We want to build, not break.
I had pulled Euan and Kit into the narrative. I had broadcasted our collective obsession to a room full of two thousand people and a global livestream audience. In the heat of the moment, desperate to reach Zia, I hadn't thought about the millions of other ears tuned in.
