Page 22 of The Silver Pact
“Yeah, it is, isn’t it?”
I glance at West and find him staring at me with intense, hungry eyes. My cheeks burn, and I glance down. There’s no mistaking the look on his face. I’ve been seeing it more and more often with them, but I’ve been trying to ignore it.
He gets another bit of cake and holds it up to me. I whimper and open my mouth, taking the morsel that has been rendered tasteless by the look in his eyes.
West inhales sharply and reaches out, brushing my lip. I watch with growing heat as he puts his thumb in his mouth, finally freeing me of his intense stare when he closes his eyes and moans.
It’s worse.
Quint smacks the back of West’s head, startling both of us. I lean back in my seat, and then, as soon as I think I can, I stand up. I get to my feet and stagger away from both of them.
I pause, go back, grab the cake, and then leave them both wrestling on the floor. It’s a common occurrence to find them rolling around tussling, but after the first few times where they end up laughing, I stopped being alarmed.
I find my way to the back porch. It’s a vast space with a large area under cover. The wood is varnished, and there’s a lounge and chairs and a swing. But it’s on the steps that I always find Ross.
“Why didn’t you become a famous musician?” I say and sit beside him. “You could have. You’re brilliant.”
Ross looks up at me and smiles. His smile should be bottled and sold as sunshine. It makes you feel warm and cared for. Like you’re important.
“Ah, but I didn’t want fame, Silver. I just wanted to create songs. Write them.”
“So, you sell your songs?”
Ross shrugs. “Sometimes. Sometimes I play the songs at pubs. Sometimes I keep them for me.”
I sigh and sit down next to him. “Do you want some cake?”
He shakes his head and starts playing a song that requires him to move his fingers at lightning speed. I’ve discovered there is something so arousing about watching him play the guitar. It just gets me hot under the collar. Is it because when he plays music, the connection between us comes to life? Is it because when he plays, he gets this sleepy-lidded look as he looks between his guitar and me?
Perhaps it’s because, though I fight it, it’s getting harder and harder to hide the feelings that are growing inside me.
He slows the melody down, and then abruptly stops and sets his guitar down. He slides closer to me so our thighs are touching.
My stomach spikes with nerves, and my heart races. This feeling, like I’ve jumped off a cliff and am falling endlessly and I’m not unhappy about it, it's addictive. The strength of the thrill of these intense moments is becoming my own personal drug. All I want to do is smile in their presence. The affection that is growing. More than affection. Trust, respect, feelings I don’t want to name.
“Do you remember when we first met?”
I stiffen and nod.
“I was so nervous.”
I jerk my head towards him, my mouth parted. Of all the words I thought I’d hear from him, that’s not even on the list. “You were?”
“Of course, I was. You were, no, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
I stiffen. “Your omega-”
“Do you know that my mother was sick?” he cuts me off and looks out at the garden. “Like, really sick. The kind of sick that lasts forever. The kind that sees her making choices with no thought to how it would hurt others.”
I stare at him.
“We didn’t know at the time. But she was quite ill. She would be so loving, and everything would be good and wonderful. My mother loved the finer things. She liked expensive gifts. She was fun, affectionate, and happy. And then, like a switch was flicked, she would just change. She would scream and get drunk, she would bring home men, terrifying men. Men with fists that put holes in walls, men who used drugs, men who beat her. My mother would cry and rage, oh, her anger was terrifying, even more so than the strangers because she knew how to hurt us the best. Mum would lash out with cutting words with her fists. She’d throw things. She’d threaten to hurt us or herself. And then in the next minute, she was sorry, begging and promising she would never do it again. I was an adult when she finally went and got the help she needed. By then, our relationship was in tatters.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Your dad was bad, too, wasn’t he?” Ross probes.
The abrupt question makes me stiffen and takes the golden light out of the sunshine.