Page 96 of Heat Unwritten
"Because you are empty," Anders corrected, leaning down so his mouth was right next to my ear. "We took everything you had, Tessa. There is no stress left in you. Only steel."
He was right. Beneath the surface chatter of anxiety, my core felt strangely hollowed out and rebuilt. The frantic, weepingneed that had plagued me for days was gone, replaced by a sore, satisfied hum. I felt the phantom weight of Daniel on my chest, the ghost of Simon’s fingers on my skin.
"Two minutes to curtain, Ms. Rose," a stage manager called from the hallway, her voice trembling slightly. Even the staff was walking on eggshells around the "mysterious recluse."
Anders turned me around. He gripped my upper arms, forcing me to look at him directly.
"The narrative changes today," he said fiercely. "You walk out there, and you kill the ghost. Do you understand?"
"I understand," I breathed.
"Good." He released me, checking his watch. "I have to get to my position. I will be right where I said I would be."
"Behind the podium?"
"My seat right in front of the podium is reserved," he promised. "I won't be looking at my shoes this time."
He turned and walked out, his stride eating up the distance. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. He had set the stage; now he was going to guard it.
I was alone in the room for ten seconds.
Then, the ambient noise changed.
The green room monitor flickered to life. It showed the stage feed. Two thousand people packed into the Paramount, a sea of darkness and anticipation. The air in the theater was thick, a physical wall of noise, chatter, shifting bodies, the rustle of clothing.
It sounded exactly like the gymnasium.
Pulse rising. 110. 115.
My breath hitched. The walls started to close in. The scent of the expensive lilies on the catering table soured, morphing into the smell of stale popcorn and floor wax.
No. Not again.
Then, the audio feed crackled. A deep, resonant hum filled the speakers, vibrating through the floor of the green room.
It wasn't feedback. It was a voice.
"Good evening, Seattle."
Daniel.
I closed my eyes, exhaling a shuddering breath. The sound was liquid comfort. It was warm spiced chai poured directly into my soul. It was the voice that had read to me while I cramped, the voice that had drowned out the drones.
On the monitor, Daniel walked onto the stage.
He wasn't wearing a suit. He wore dark jeans and a black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to expose his massive forearms. He looked like exactly what he was, a mountain that had decided to take the mic. He didn't use the podium. He took the wireless microphone and walked to the center of the stage, towering over the audience, relaxed and immense.
The crowd quieted instantly. It was a physical reaction to his frequency. He rolled his vowels, pitching his voice into that sub-bass register that vibrated in the chest cavities of everyone in the room. A hand on my arm shook me from my panic slightly as the stage manager from before escorted me to the edge of the stage where another monitor was positioned on the wall.
"We are here tonight to talk about legends," Daniel rumbled, his voice a warm embrace wrapping around the theater. "We are here to talk about the stories we tell ourselves to survive the dark."
I leaned against the small table that sat under the monitor, letting his voice hold me up. He was doing it. He was tempering the room, smoothing out the jagged edges of the crowd’s energy, turning a mob into a congregation.
"For years," Daniel continued, engaging the audience with a gentle, hazel-eyed intimacy even through the cameras, "you have lived in the world ofThe Alpha's Oath. You have fought withKavlar. You have plotted with Halcious. You have watched from the shadows with Silar."
A cheer went up, the fans recognizing the names of my heroes. My pack.
"You have loved these men," Daniel said softly. "But you have never met the woman who gave them their souls."
