"The lighting is terrible in here," Simon complained, checking the digital display and frowning at the histogram. "Fluorescents are the enemy of art. But you're glowing, so it balances out."
"That's sweat, Simon," I shot back, taking a sip from the straw Daniel was practically holding to my lips. "It's a hot convention center in the middle of July."
"It's radiance," he corrected, swinging the lens toward me and snapping a picture as I subconsciously rubbed my belly again. "That goes in the private archive. For the kid to see later."
"Focus," a sharp, clipped voice cut through our banter.
Anders appeared at the end of the line. He wasn't sitting behind the table with the mortals; he was standing at the perimeter, occupying the space like a general surveying a battlefield. He was wearing a tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than the venue rental, his white shirt crisp and unwrinkled despite the heat. He was reviewing the queue, checking wristbands with a terrifying efficiency that made grown men weep and security guards step aside.
But when he looked at me, the icy blue of his eyes thawed instantly. The compulsive check of his expensive watch was forgotten as his gaze dropped to my stomach, then up to my face, a fierce, proprietary pride burning there that smelled of Aged Bourbon and Teakwood.
"We have ten minutes until the panel starts," Anders informed me, his voice pitching low for my ears only. "Do you need a break? I can clear the room. I can have security shut down the hall."
"I'm fine, Anders," I said, suppressing a smile at his readiness to go to war over my comfort level. "I want to finish the line."
I looked back at Maya. She had frozen, her eyes wide as saucepans. She was staring at the three men hovering around me, the massive mountain refilling my water with gentle hands, the brooding artist capturing my angles with visual worship, and the high-powered agent guarding my space like a dragon with a hoard.
"They're real," Maya whispered, the realization hitting her like a physical blow. "The pack... they're really like the book."
I laughed, a sound that felt light and unburdened in my chest. It wasn't the terrified squeak of the girl who had fled her hometown. It was the laugh of a woman who knew exactly where she belonged.
"They're better," I told her, glancing at the three of them. "They do the dishes."
Maya giggled, the sound breaking the tension in her shoulders. She relaxed, lowering the book slightly from her chest.
I looked down at the title page. I thought about the girl I used to be, the "Graduation Girl,”, the one who threw bath salts at a drone in a panic, the one who thought her voice was a curse that only brought ruin.
Then I thought about the baby growing inside me. A girl, if the ultrasound was right. A girl who would never know what it meant to be ashamed of her biology, who would have three fathers to teach her that she could burn the world down if she wanted to, and a mother who would hand her the matches and show her where to strike.
I pressed the pen to the paper, the tip bleeding ink into the fiber.
Maya,
I wrote, underlining the name.
Your voice matters. Scream if you have to.
— T.L. Rose (Tessa)
I closed the book with a soft thump and slid it across the table.
"Thank you," Maya breathed, clutching the hardcover like it was treasure. "You... you saved me. Your books saved me."
I reached out across the divide, bypassing the Sharpies and the promotional bookmarks, and took her hand for a second. Her fingers were cold, trembling against my warmth.
"You saved yourself," I promised her, looking her dead in the eye with all the intensity of the Valedictorian I was supposed to be. "I just wrote the manual."
Maya walked away, clutching the book, looking a little taller than she had when she arrived.
"That was a beautiful promise, Tessa."
I froze. It wasn't a fan's voice, not exactly. It was a velvety, melodic alto that I recognized from a hundred hours of audiobooks. It was the exact voice Daniel had tried, and failed, to imitate.
I looked up to find a woman standing at the edge of the table. She had an air of quiet, observant intensity, her eyes sweeping over the three Alphas behind me with a look of professional curiosity that didn't hold a hint of fear.
"Isobel Gretan," I breathed.
"Tessa Kane," she replied, her smile soft but enigmatic. "I’ve been living with your characters for weeks now. I just had to see the woman who finally gave them a happy ending." She leaned in, her voice dropping to that spine-tingling frequency that made her a star. "I think our next collaboration is going to be something very special."
