"Move," he said.
His voice was tight, a wire pulled to its breaking point, stripped of the polished warmth that had been there only minutes ago in the dressing room.
"Stephen?" I stumbled, my folio slipping in my grip as I tried to keep up with his punishing stride toward the loading dock. "Did you see his face? We broke the narrative. We actually?—"
"The penthouse is burned," Stephen cut me off. He didn't look at me. He shoved a heavy, industrial fire door open with his shoulder, the metal groaning.
The cool night air hit me instantly, smelling of wet concrete, exhaust fumes, and the damp grit of London.
"Vance leaked the address," Stephen continued, his tone devoid of inflection, which terrified me more than shouting would have. "It’s on every doxxing forum in the hemisphere. We have photographers swarming the lobby and a brick came through the living room window three minutes ago."
The victory in my chest curdled instantly into cold lead. The spreadsheet of my life flashed red.
"My mother?—"
"She’s safe. I had a team move her again just in case, but the Manchester site is dark. This is about us." He guided me toward a waiting black sedan, its engine already idling with a low, predatory hum. "Get in."
I paused at the curb, looking frantically around the empty loading bay. "Where are Mateo and Juno?"
"In the car. Get in, Rowan."
I didn't argue. I slid into the passenger seat. Stephen slammed the door with a finality that rattled my teeth and wasbehind the wheel in seconds. The tires screeched against the damp asphalt as we peeled out of the loading bay, merging aggressively into the London traffic.
I turned in my seat, the leather straining against my twisting spine, to look at the back.
Mateo was there, filling the space like a physical barricade. He was taking up two-thirds of the bench seat, his massive frame effectively blocking out the world. And curled into the corner, shielded by Mateo’s massive bulk, was Juno.
He looked wrecked.
The ethereal rebel, the man who had worn a tuxedo like a weapon just last night, was pale, his skin possessing the translucency of wet paper. His eyes were squeezed shut, his head resting heavily against the cool glass of the window. His hands were gripping his knees so hard his knuckles were white bone against the dark fabric of his trousers.
"Juno?" I asked, straining against the seatbelt. "Are you okay? The broadcast... did something happen backstage? Did Mitchell touch you?"
"Drive," Juno rasped. He didn't open his eyes. The word sounded like it had been dragged through broken glass.
"We’re two hours out," Stephen said, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror, watching for a tail with calm paranoia. "Traffic is clearing. I can make it in ninety minutes if I ignore the speed cameras."
"Make it in sixty," Mateo growled.
The air in the car was suffocating. It wasn't just the climate control blasting hot air to combat the clammy London night; it was the pressure. The tension coming off Stephen and Mateo was a physical weight, heavy enough to pop ears. Mateo’s hand was clamped onto the door handle with enough force to warp the high-end plastic. Stephen’s jaw was a rigid line of granite,a muscle feathering near his temple in a spasm of pure, white-knuckled stress.
And the smell.
Alphas have scents. I knew that. I managed them. I negotiated clauses about them. I ensured ventilation riders were met. Stephen usually smelled like ink and ozone, a sharp, clean smell; Mateo smelled like cedar and rain on asphalt, grounding and heavy.
But this... this was different.
It started faint, a ghost in the ventilation system, but within ten minutes of hitting the M25, it was choking.
It was sweet to a terrifying degree. Sickly and cloying, like sugar burning in a copper pan. Like caramel catching fire and turning perfectly, tragically black.
It hit the back of my throat and stuck there, coating my tongue. It made my own Beta biology recoil, a primitive, lizard-brain warning that something in the immediate vicinity was in critical, biological distress.
Time ticked by as I watched Juno in the backseat.
He was breathing wrong.
Everyone breathes. It’s an autonomic function. You don't manage it unless you're meditating, singing, or dying. Juno was managing it.
