Page 72 of The Rogues

“I’m sorry, Mr. Darlington! I didn’t know she was⁠—”

“Get. Lost.”

He does, turning into a blur as he trails past us and out of our line of sight. When I turn back to the situation, the brunette is on her feet and wiping the dirt off of her bare knees.

“What are you doing here?” Cyrus says, dumbstruck by this woman’s appearance.

I look at her, not placing her identity at all. She looks young, fresh out of high school. She has this excited energy that can only come from blissful ignorance, and her outfit reflects that sunshine through and through. Her aesthetic is a mix of formal and playful; a brown skirt pretty against her tan skin and a lilac corset wrapping around a white button-up shirt.

Who is this girl? Is she an ex of theirs? I don’t think so, she looks too young…

Then her scent hits me, something creamy and fruity, silky and sour. Like the most decadent homemade grape ice cream.

She’s an omega.

“I wanted to come see you play,” she replies to him, the damsel in distress now gone as she looks at Cyrus with stubborn eyes.

“You’ve seen me perform a million times. How did you get here?”

She crosses her arms. “By plane, you knob.”

“I’m sorry,” I interrupt, my hands going up to combat my confusion. “I’m lost.”

Cyrus deadpans, scoffing at the woman in front of him. “This is my sister, Florence. Apparently, now that she’s an adult, she feels like she can do whatever she wants.”

“Isn’t that what being an adult is all about? Who put a rod up your ass today, Cy?”

Someone snickers behind me, but I don’t have to turn around to know it’s Malaki. My brain finally catches up to the situation as I look back over the woman’s features. Her dark hair, the same color eyes as Cyrus, the same English dialect.

Fuck, I should have known. But in my defense, I didn’t even know he had a sister. I probably should have googled my mates considering they’re public figures, but it feels wrong. Like I’ll be taking information that might not even be real. The girls and I know how quick the internet can morph the truth.

“Why are you here, Flo?” Cyrus asks his sister, his concern bleeding through my internal crisis.

“Because I deplore Paris,” she sneers between her teeth.

His eyes widen with surprise. “Paris? Why weren’t you in Bristol?”

Florence kicks the dirt from the floor, not meeting his eyes. “Because Mum sent me there to make things right with Julian.”

Cyrus’s face explodes with both surprise and anger. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

My brow arches at the irritation on his face, like something more serious is happening and he has no control over it.

“Please just let me watch the set, Cy. I don’t want to go back to Paris.”

“You just turned eighteen and our concerts can get crazy. You can’t handle the mosh pit, Flo, and I don’t think you should sit in our green room by yourself.”

That’s a bit presumptuous. Even with my sensitivity issues, there were ways to handle the pit when I’d go to concerts. They were some of the best memories of my life.

“Please, Cy. Just let me watch tonight.”

He shakes his head, undeterred. I see the sadness in her eyes, like she can’t stand to see his disappointment in her. It tugs at something in my body.

“She can stay with us,” I suggest.

Cyrus’s eyes zap to mine. “What?”

“During your set, she can stay with me and the girls,” I repeat. “So she’ll be safe and she can watch your set.”