Page 46 of The Omega Verse

I roll onto my side, curious to see if Cassie is still gripping my shirt. But she has her hands full with her mate. He’s caged her in with his huge forearms, and is dropping kisses on every inch of her sleepy face. He’s rumbling with pleasure while she makes little sighing sounds, and their new mate scent is as thick as syrup in our tangled sheets.

Arousal sparks in my belly, and I think about lying here and just watching them for a while. But I clear my throat instead, and swing my way out of the bed. “I’ll get breakfast for you lovebirds.”

“I can do it,” Cassie says, pushing at Tom’s chest.

But I shake my head. “All good. If there’s nothing in the fridge, I’ll uber some eats.”

She whispers something at him – probably more protests about letting me loose in her fancy new kitchen – but he rumbles out some reassurance. I doubt it works. I’ve known Cassie all of five minutes, but it’s clear she likes to feed people. That spread she put on for us last night was a prime example. Shame we didn’t get to enjoy it, but according to her brother, regrets are a waste of time.

I’m thinking about his soggy bran flakes as I pad into the kitchen, looking for food. The refrigerator is hidden behind a black marble panel, and opens like the control deck of a starship cruiser. It’s fully stocked – no doubt care of whoever Steven paid to keep the house move-in ready – but the pantry is harder to find. Mainly because it’s another entire room and bigger than my walk-in closet, which is saying something.

I look around at the perfectly arranged shelves of canned foods and dry goods. Fuck, I bet Steven arranged this himself. OCD to the end, brother.

I assemble a few things on the bench and double check I have everything for blueberry pancakes – Steven’s favourite - but my brain keeps going back to his letter. The envelope is still lying on the counter, but the letter and deed have been placed neatly on the coffee table. I’m pretty sure I didn’t do that last night, which means Tom must have been up and patrolling.

I snort as I pull up the recipe on my phone and start looking for some measuring cups. I usually just chuck shit in a bowl and hope for the best, but I can’t really do that with a pastry chef in the house.

I shake my head as I picture myself taking them breakfast in bed. Not something I’ve ever done before, but worth it if Tom is taking her mind off things. I don’t go for guys – never been my thing – but I’ve always liked to watch. And there’s nothing better than a big guy coming apart because of a sweet little thing like Cassie.

Which makes my stomach clench for all the wrong reasons. As I give up my search for measuring cups – Steven needs a fucking map for this kitchen - I shoot his neatly folded letter a bitter look. He might’ve been great with words, but Steven was wrong. My heart is tinfoil at best. And the guy his sister really needs is already with her in the other room. I’m the opposite of anyone’s safe place to land, and if I spend much more time around them, she’s going to learn that the hard way.

Fuck it. I leave the ingredients on the counter and go in search of the Range Rover keys. I find them on the hallway table, but as I scoop them up, I remember my phone. Right as I go back and grab it, I hear soft footsteps behind me.

“You hoping this stuff is going to cook itself?” Cassie asks as she comes out of the bedroom, a telltale glow in her cheeks. Seems the big guy fucked her blues away, after all. Although, her face falls as she catches sight of the keys in my hand. “Are you leaving?”

Fuck me.

“I’ve got things to do…”

“What things?” She sounds panicked, and she comes right over to me, grabbing my arm. She’s wearing the same clothes as last night, but she still smells as sweet as strawberries.

I never should have let her cry on my lap. Or slept in her fucking bed, for that matter.

“Can’t you stay, at least for today?” Her eyes burn into mine. “I don’t want to look around without you.”

Because she still hasn’t taken a tour of her fancy new house. Which is weird. Anybody else would tear around the place, gasping at all the expensive shit on the walls, and squealing at all their shiny new possessions. Doesn’t she like Steven’s gift? Is it the wrong colour scheme, the wrong style? Or is she planning on selling it, saying fuck you to the memories, and buying a big concrete pile up on the hill?

Her fingers tighten on my arm. “Why are you so angry?”

“I’m not angry,” I snarl, right as her mate comes out of the bedroom, shirtless and rumpled. Yeah, he had his morning glory, the bastard. “I just need to go.”

“You sure?” he asks, ambling over to the bureau against the wall and fiddling with something in the wooden cabinet. A moment later, the opening bars of a song can be heard in every corner of the room. Because, of course, Steven spared no expense installing the best surround sound system money can buy. “What’s more important than being here?”

Probably not a lot for him, even if the guy literally saves lives. I scrub my head as I stare at the nearest speaker. “Don’t play this shit.”

Cassie cocks her head, her brow furrowed. “You don’t like ‘Afterlove’?”

I just stare at her. I hated the song for years, which is a fucking cliché. Moody rockstar who resents the song that shot him to stardom. But it was never my song. It was Steven’s. About her.

Because we fucked up.

“We tracked you down to the Donahues,” I spit before I can stop myself. “It was years later. Steven told me he left a sister behind.”

“You knew about me?” She looks confused instead of pissed. “But you said he never mentioned me.”

“I knew. He made me promise we’d go back for you. But those first couple of years we could barely feed ourselves. His shitty temper got us kicked out of every place we stayed, and… we were fucking selfish, okay? We just wanted to make music, not look after some kid. And then things got better. We got our shit together, started playing better gigs. He was still a fucking mess, but that worked in a way. People ate that angsty crap up. We got a reputation, then a following, then a spot at a music festival. Soon as we got paid, he rented some dinky little house. Put most of his savings down, and he went looking again. We found out you were living with the Donahues.”

“I was fourteen… You and Steven were twenty? The year before…”

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