Page 45 of Star Claimed Omega
His plan?
Head to Deck 27, kick off his boots, plant himself in front of his cabin’s terrace, gaze at the lights and fireflies ripple over the lake, and, freakin’ unwind.
He unlocked the door to his cabin with a tired swipe of his hand, stepped inside, and came to a halt.
The scent of candles she burned after each cleaning didn’t greet him.
The floors weren’t gleaming.
The subtle arrangement of fresh fruit she always left on his bench was missing.
The sink was still full.
His dishes still sat in it from three days ago, crusted with food.
His bed was unmade.
He stood in the center of the cabin, the whiskey bottle dangling from two fingers, pursing his lips, his lycan spirit stirring and not in a good way.
Soleil hadn’t worked her latest shift in the cabin.
Nor her previous one.
He hadn’t seen her in,fokk, how long had it been?
His stomach knotted as he plonked the grog on the dining table and pulled up his neural comm. With a flick of his digits, he called her supervisor.
Wren’s face shimmered into view.
He appeared harried, the tiredness stemming from managing too many people while juggling numerous shifts and gigs.
‘She hasn’t been in,’ Santi said without preamble.
Wren sighed. ‘I know. I flagged it yesterday.’
‘You check in on her?’
A beat. Then a shrug. ‘She’s FIFO, a fly-in, fly-out temp. We don’t have a team of oversight staff to go door to door every time someone fails to show up for a shift. We’ve got hundreds of temps, XO. A hundred more are willing to replace her tomorrow.’
Santi’s jaw locked. ‘Give me her address.’
Wren blinked. ‘That’s not protocol.’
‘I am thefokkin’ protocol,’ Santi growled.
Minutes later, he was out the door, prowling towards the elevator.
He took the first one, descending into the underbelly of the ship, the bowels of Deck 5, where the lights flickered, and the walls sweated condensation.
It stank of mold and recycled breath and hopelessness, regardless of the multiple social servicesThe Sombraoffered its residents.
He found the location easily enough.
The corridor outside it was a narrow, dark artery carved through cold alloy and stained bulkheads.
Overhead, exposed conduit pipes hissed with reclaimed steam, casting pale halos in the gloom. The deck plating vibratedbeneath his booted feet, trembling with the constant thrum of the ship’s engines.
The air stunk of metal dust, oil, and the lingering sourness of too many bodies packed too tight for too long.
