Page 12 of The Omega Verse

Getting to his feet, he goes back to the kettle and pulls out a fresh mug. When he’s made another cup of tea, he jerks his head towards the bathroom door. “Shall we go see if she’s ready to talk?”

River

“Sweetheart, can you open up? I’ve made you a cup of tea.”

I tap the bathroom door lightly, not wanting to startle her. She left a trail of hurt emotions after her, and my stomach is still clenching from the burnt sugar smell. I half expect her to tell me to fuck off, but there’s a scraping sound and the door pops open. I peer inside, but it’s not hard to find her in the tiny space. She’s put the toilet seat down and is sitting on the lid, her legs pulled up and her arms wrapped around her knees. She watches me with Steven’s eyes – wary, hurting, and so fucking beautiful – and I feel the tea I just drank burning up the back of my throat.

“You okay, sugar?” That’s Silva, standing so close behind me I can feel his body heat along my spine. Damn, but I’m twitchy. Between the way he looks at me, and the way I’m looking at her, the tiny bathroom can’t contain the tension. “Sorry all that shit went down in the green room,” he goes on. “I would’ve come straight back to get you, but I got waylaid by a bunch of reporters.”

Including some of the biggest names in music publishing, but he doesn’t tell her that.

She gives him a weary smile. “It’s okay. I could’ve been clearer about who I was. It’s Cass, by the way…”

Silva gives a happy rumble, but she looks away, her face pale. I can’t tell if it’s because she’s going to be sick again, or if it’s because she’s still reeling from being mugged by Celine Quint.

Cold anger grips me as I think of the bitch. She tortured Steven for years, and then went after me, stalking me, harassing me… And now she’s hurt Steven’s sister, like she has some sixth sense for hitting me in my weak spots.

“Is Jett still out there…?”

I wince, because that’s another whole problem. “He’s gone to bed. It’s okay. Come on, sweetheart.”

I coax her, using the few omega wiles still at my disposal, and she comes slowly, carefully unwrapping herself like every limb aches. Silva makes a concerned sound as she wobbles on her feet, but she waves him off. “I’m not going to pass out, I promise.”

We step back, letting her get her bearings, but then she lifts her chin, her eyes cool. “And you don’t need to frisk me, by the way. I’ll answer any questions you have.”

Fuck. So, she heard Jett running his mouth. “That’s not going to happen. Come and sit down. If you don’t like tea, we have coffee.”

“Coffee would be amazing.” She checks up and down the hall, clearly curious. “Where’s the rest of the band? Cory and Rick, right?”

Not exactly a happy topic, since they both told me they’d prefer a vacation in a combat zone over a road trip with Jett right now. “Their pack lives over east, so they decided to spend their R&R with them.”

She nods, heading over to the kitchen counter and firing up the coffee machine. It’s commercial-grade and tricky to operate, but she froths the milk like a pro and Silva almost purrs when she slides the cup his way. “I work in an Italian bakery. Not being able to make a good coffee is a mortal sin in Cookie’s book.”

I want to hear more, but Silva snatches up the cup, making a big production of licking off the froth, complete with pornographic sound effects. When she’s made her own coffee, we head back over to the table. There’s not a lot of real estate on a tour bus, but she doesn’t seem to mind when Silva slides in next to her, their shoulders touching. “You said you were a pastry chef,” he says when we’re settled. “What’s your favourite thing to bake?”

She tilts him an amused look. “You feeling hungry, rockstar?”

He slides an elbow on the table, almost boxing her in. “Always. Drummers need a lot of calories, you know.”

“Hmm.” There’s no missing the way she looks at him, and I wonder if he was telling the truth about not kissing her. “I guess it would be sfogliatella.” I don’t think she’s Italian, but the word rolls off her tongue like a song. “You might know them as lobster tails. You can make them with ricotta, candied citrus fruit, or almond paste, but I like them with chocolate cream.”

My stomach rumbles, which surprises me. I haven’t felt hungry in a long time, and I’ve lost weight to the point Hoover’s been threatening me with supplements. Although, I’m not sure if I’m craving one of her pastries or the look in her eye.

Steven’s eyes.

“Just to make it official, I can see the resemblance,” I tell her. “I have no doubt you’re related to Steven.”

That breaks the spell Silva seems to have cast over her, her eyes wide as she studies me. “Really? I mean, I saw pictures of him. But I thought he looked more like our dad, while I took after our mum’s side.”

This is news to me, and I sit up straighter. “Yeah? You remember them?”

“Not much.” She drops her gaze to the tabletop and the burnt sugar smell is back. “He was six years older than me, and we got put into care when I was five. We were both pretty messed up, and we didn’t last in any one place for very long. And then, when Steven was fourteen, he took off. He always said he’d get us our own place when he turned eighteen and could legally look after me, but I never saw him again.”

God, my heart aches.

And I can tell by the way Silva’s jaw keeps clenching that he’s drinking in every ripple of hurt on her face. “Not even when he and Jett got set up?”

“I think they lived pretty rough at first.” Her eyes flick my way, as if for confirmation, and I nod. I wasn’t around then, but I’ve heard the stories. “I got placed in a group home situation when I was fourteen, but I decided to leave and go out on my own. I changed my name after that.” She shrugs, playing with her coffee cup. “It’s not like I left a forwarding address.”

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