To ruin an Omega

Chapter 133: Cupcake 1

CIAN

I waited in my quarters while the minutes ticked by. The aquamarine brooch sat in its case on my desk. Everything was ready for tomorrow. Everything except the knot in my chest that wouldn’t loosen.

The knock came soft but clear.

“Come in.”

The young Omega from earlier pushed open the door. Behind her, a trolley rolled across the threshold. The wheels made almost no sound on the stone floor. Silver domes covered the dishes. Steam curled from beneath the edges and carried the scent of roasted vegetables and fresh bread.

“Everything you requested, Alpha.” She arranged the items with practiced efficiency and moved a napkin half an inch to the left after adjusting a spoon. “Will there be anything else?”

“No. Thank you.”

She bowed and left. The door clicked shut.

I stood there for a moment looking at the trolley. At the careful arrangement of dishes and the small vase with a single white flower tucked into the corner. Someone had added that touch. Someone who understood that comfort came in small gestures.

I gripped the handle and wheeled it into the corridor.

The walk to Fia’s suite felt longer than it should have. My footsteps echoed. The trolley wheels hummed against stone. A sentinel nodded as I passed. I nodded back and kept moving.

When I reached her door, I stopped. Listened. No sound came from inside. No movement. No indication she knew I was standing here like an idiot with a dinner cart.

I knocked twice.

“Come in.”

Her voice sounded tired. Not the bone-deep exhaustion I’d felt through the bond earlier but something quieter. This was more resigned.

I pushed the door open and wheeled the trolley inside.

Fia sat on the edge of her bed. She’d changed from the dress she’d worn earlier into something simpler. A loose shirt that fell off one shoulder. Her hair was down. Unbound. The dark waves spilled over her shoulders and caught the lamplight.

“Hey,” she said.

“You didn’t come down for dinner.” I kept my tone light. Neutral. “I thought maybe you still wanted to avoid my uncle and cousin.”

She shook her head. The movement was slow. Deliberate. “I’m just a bit tired.”

I studied her face. Looked for the telltale signs of a lie. The slight tension around her eyes. The way she might bite the inside of her cheek. But there was nothing. She was being honest. This was just exhaustion.

“You didn’t shield,” I said. “So I guess that must be true.”

Her gaze shifted to the trolley. “What is that?”

I wheeled it closer. The silver domes gleamed under the light from her bedside lamp. “Dinner in bed.”

“How sweet.”

The words were simple but something in her tone made my chest tighten.

I smiled, reached for the largest dome and lifted it. Steam rose in a white cloud and revealed roasted chicken with herbs. The skin was golden and crispy. The smell filled the space between us.

“I don’t know what you like,” I said. I moved to the next dome and lifted it to show glazed carrots and potatoes. Then another. Fresh bread torn into chunks. Butter in a small ceramic dish. “So I asked them to give you options.”

Fia leaned forward slightly. Her eyes scanned the offerings. “I don’t have a favorite food so you don’t have to worry.”

She reached for a bowl of porridge that sat near the edge. The steam rising from it carried the scent of cinnamon and honey. She cradled it in both hands.

That bothered me for some reason.

“Everybody has one,” I said.

“Well.” She met my eyes. “I must be different.”

“Different how?”

She shrugged. The movement was easy. Casual. But I caught the slight hitch in her breath. The way her fingers tightened around the bowl. “As long as it tastes good, I’m fine.”

I pulled the chair from her writing desk and sat down. The wood creaked under my weight. “Come on, there must be one.”

“I just told you. I don’t have one.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She took a spoonful of porridge and blew on it. The steam dissipated in the air between us. “Forget me, what is your favorite food?”

“It’s more like a sweet baked treat.”

Her eyebrows rose. She swallowed the porridge and set the bowl on her lap. “Well, what is it?”

I leaned back in the chair and crossed my arms. “I’ll tell you. If you tell me yours.”

“I’m not shielded. I really do not have a favorite food.”

“But I can tell you’re being dishonest.”

“I wouldn’t call it being dishonest.” She picked up the spoon again. Stirred the porridge in slow circles. “It’s more like I haven’t had it forever because I only like it one way… When a certain someone makes it.”

The grief hit me through the bond before she finished speaking. It rolled over me in waves. Heavy, cold and thick like fog. I felt it settle in my chest and press against my ribs.

“Oh,” I said. “Your mother.”

Fia nodded. She didn’t look at me. She just kept stirring the porridge in those same slow circles. “If you must know, it’s beans cooked soft with palm oil. No one else seems to make it right.”

“Your father doesn’t know your mother’s recipe?”

“He does.” She set the spoon down first then picked up the bowl again and took another bite. “At least a rendition of it that I can still appreciate. But it’s been so long since he’s made one for me.”

She shook her head. The movement was sharp. Quick. Like she was trying to dislodge something stuck in her thoughts. “Well, that was depressing.”

The grief was still there. I could feel it humming through the bond. But she’d tamped it down. Pushed it back into whatever corner of herself she kept those feelings.

“What is your sweet treat?” she asked.

I shot her a look. Let my eyes trail down to her lips then back up. “You?”

She chuckled. The sound caught in her throat and she coughed. She even brought her hand up to cover her mouth.

I reached for the water glass on the trolley and handed it to her. She took it. Drank. Her throat worked with each swallow.

“I wish that would work on me,” she said. She set the glass down and looked at me with those eyes that always seemed to see too much. “But for real, what is yours?”

“A promise is a promise.” I uncrossed my arms and leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “I love ube cupcakes. If you wanted to poison me, you would probably succeed using that.”

She smiled. The expression was small but genuine. “Cupcakes…”

“There you have it. My Achilles heel.”

Fia turned her attention back to the trolley. Her gaze swept over the remaining dishes and landed on something near the back. “I take it you don’t like red velvet with buttercream icing?”

I followed her line of sight. A generous slice of cake sat on a small plate. The layers were deep red. Almost burgundy. The frosting was thick and white and swirled into perfect peaks. “Not enough. You want some?”

“Yeah.”

I stood and moved to the trolley. Cut a portion from the slice. The knife slid through the layers with ease. The cake was moist. The kind that left crumbs on the blade. I set the piece on a clean plate and handed it to her.

She took it, set her porridge aside, picked up the fork and took a bite.

“I thought about what you said,” I said. “About my uncle.”

She paused mid-chew and looked up at me.

“I guess there’s a disconnect.” I sat back down. The chair creaked again. “But if you have your doubts, I guess it’s smart that I harbor a little too.”

I watched her swallow. Watched her set the fork down on the plate.

“But trust me,” I said. “My uncle… This one at least… Would never.”

Peace flooded through the bond. It was sudden, warm and so different from the grief that had been there moments ago. It wrapped around me like sunlight after rain.

“That does lighten my heart a little,” she said.

I smiled. Felt the tension in my shoulders ease. Then I noticed the smudge of buttercream icing around her cupid’s bow. It was just a small dot of white against her skin. But it bothered me.

“You have something.” I gestured to my own mouth. “Right there.”

She touched her lips and licked at the spot. But the icing stayed. She missed it by a fraction of an inch.

I stood and crossed the distance between us. The space was smaller than I remembered. I leaned down and pressed my thumb to the spot. Then I brought it to my mouth and licked the icing away.

It was sweet and rich, with that slight tang of cream cheese.

Fia stared at me. Her eyes had gone wide. “What are you doing?”

“You know damn well what I’m doing.”

“It’s not even heat season.” Her voice had dropped lower. Softer. “Do you have to be this way?”

“I have self-control.” I straightened slightly and immediately attempted to put distance between us even though everything in me wanted to close it again. “If you don’t want this, I don’t want this either.”

I made to step back. To give her space. To let her breathe.

Her hand shot out and caught my wrist. Her fingers wrapped around the bone. Held tight.

“I don’t hate it,” she said.