Chapter 5 – IVY
Chapter
Five
IVY
Being out and about during regular hours feels fucking weird.
Everything in me screams to retreat back to the safety of my hidden nest, especially since I woke up feeling like shit, but I force myself to keep moving through the arena's maintenance area.
After Plague's late-night inspection of the equipment room and how he was clearly suspicious of blades being sharpened so late, I need to establish myself as a legitimate presence just in case.
Hell, the lazy security team might even be checking the cameras for once.
I adjust my plain navy uniform, making sure it hangs loose enough to hide my figure so I don’t get any unwanted attention from the male alphas and betas that work here.
The equipment manager ID badge clipped to my chest just says “Hannah,” of course.
Not Ivy. I grabbed it from a back room a few weeks ago and stuck a white rabbit sticker from a vending machine on it.
Figured it would make the badge look more legitimate if I decorated it.
Here, I’m just another forgettable face in the arena's vast workforce. Employees come and go all the time. There’s always some kind of drama going on, so if I lay low and keep to myself, I should blend right in.
At least, that's what I'm hoping.
The sound of voices draws my attention. I recognize a few faces—Megan from housekeeping, an equipment manager with electric blue hair named Sam, and a couple of newer girls around my age.
One of the interns gestures wildly with her free hand. "I'm telling you, Gabrielle quit because she saw a monster in the tunnels. If you make me go down there, I'm bringing backup."
"Maintenance halls, you mean?" Megan rolls her eyes as she sloshes her ropey mop in the soap bucket on her cart. "You're making it sound like we've got alligator-infested sewers down there."
"Has anyone been able to reach her?" another girl asks. She has pink streaks in her light brown hair and is picking at her equally pink phone case. "I texted her, but she’s ghosting me. We were supposed to go out for drinks later, too.”
"She told me she thought it was Wraith at first," the intern continues, clearly enjoying being the center of attention to the expense of everyone else trying to talk.
"She caught him drinking a bottle of water in a back room, and then he turned around, and she realized it was some kind of demon. And that's the last I heard from her. Trust me, girl, she’s ghosting everyone. It isn’t personal. "
“Please,” Megan scoffs. "Gabrielle was a pill popper. She was probably hallucinating. Everyone knows Wraith's scary as fuck, but ‘demon’ is a little dramatic.”
"Scary and hot," one of the other equipment managers chimes in. "No way someone that tall and built is ugly under that mask, no matter what Gabrielle thinks she saw."
"Uh, hello? The scar through his eye?" the intern counters. "Who knows what else he's hiding."
"It's probably fake. You can buy those at Spirit Halloween."
The group erupts in laughter.
"He is scary though," Pink Streaks says quietly. "I mean, he never talks. And after what he did to Daniels..."
"Daniels was an asshole who probably had it coming," Sam cuts in, not looking up from the skate she’s grinding. "And the new winger is hot as fuuuuck, so we’re getting an upgrade anyway."
Pink Streaks perks up. “Where did you hear that?”
“Fan chat,” Sam replies, popping a piece of gum in her mouth and giving it a chew before continuing. “Shit got leaked on there this morning.”
“Who is he?” Pink Streaks asks.
“Something like Vlak, I think?” Sam says. “Or Valek?”
My skin prickles. I distinctly remember Wade mentioning a winger named Valek playing for the Demons a few years ago. It wasn't recently, and I think it was just for one season, but still. That isn't the kind of name you forget easily.
Shit. The last thing I need is someone with a known connection to Wade coming to the arena on a regular basis.
At least nearly everyone in the room is caught up in looking at their phones and shrieking about how hot and single the new winger is. But I'm barely paying attention at this point. My head is spinning. Too many people. Too much exposure. The lights suddenly feel too bright, the air too thick.
Shit. I really should've gotten more sleep last night.
I made my appearance as planned, and I don’t need to stick around. Fighting the urge to walk suspiciously fast, I walk out as casually as I can, my stomach rolling with nausea. I need to get back to my nest, back to the safety of darkness and solitude.
I've pushed my luck far enough for one day.
As I disappear into the maintenance halls, I realize I'm trembling and the back of my neck feels cold, near where one of the patches rests. Must be sweating.
Great.
I press my palm against the concrete wall, using it to guide myself through the dimly lit passages.
I need food.
Real food would be nice, but for now, I'll have to settle for what I can get from the vending machines with the cash I scavenge from the stands.
There's one tucked away in a forgotten break room near the old loading dock and my nest. Not many people know about it, which means it doesn't get restocked often, but it's still the safest one.
And there won't be anyone around, either.
The flickering lights do nothing to help the cold sweat trickling down the back of my neck. The whole scene feels like something out of a horror movie. Concrete walls, metal pipes and that endless electric hum.
The vending machine comes into view, its faint glow barely penetrating the gloom. I fish some crumpled bills from my pocket and feed them into the slot. The ancient machine whirs and clunks as it dispenses a granola bar.
When I bend to retrieve it, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. That familiar sensation of being watched crawls over my skin. I straighten slowly, every cell in my body on high alert.
Despite my stuffy nose and the general unwell feeling that's been plaguing me all day, a new scent hits me.
An alpha's scent.
A wild, masculine scent. Like a foggy mountain forest in the middle of the night.
The lights flicker once, twice, then go out completely for a heart-stopping second before sputtering back to life.
And there he is.
Wraith.
We both freeze at the same time like two wild animals suddenly finding themselves trapped in the same den.
His burning blue eyes are slightly obscured by his choppy dark hair as he stares at me, his massive frame filling the doorway and blocking out what little light remains.
Even with his broad shoulders hunched slightly, he has to be around seven feet tall.
I've never seen him up close, but…. holy shit.
Wraith is freaking huge.
I barely have time to register the sheer size of this alpha before he makes a low sound in his throat, almost like a growl, and he turns his head slightly to the side as he backs up a step.
But those striking blue eyes never leave mine even as he keeps his head turned away.
As if to make sure it's still securely in place, he feels the edge of the black face gaiter that covers everything from the bridge of his nose to the collar of the dark gray tank that's practically painted onto his muscled torso.
Is he checking to make sure it's still in place?
The story I overheard earlier echoes in my head. An equipment manager freaked out because she saw Wraith and thought he was a monster. My heart sinks at the thought.
I freaking hate people.
Neither of us makes a move to advance or retreat. The space stretches between us like a rubber band pulled taut.
His blue eyes stay locked on mine, but the almost feral light behind them has softened.
He's looking at me like...
Like I'm the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
Which is ridiculous. I'm wearing a shapeless uniform that smells like equipment cleaner, my hair is stuffed under a ratty cap, and I haven't slept properly in days.
Nope. I have to be reading into that.
Finally, as if by some unspoken agreement, we both start backing away in opposite directions.
Wraith back into the hall, me back toward the vending machine.
When his back brushes the concrete wall and there's nowhere else for him to go, he holds up his palms as if to clearly signal he isn't a threat.
That he isn't going to try to block me, or grab me, or hurt me.
I force myself to walk calmly, steadily, until I'm around the corner and out of sight. Only then do I let myself pick up speed.
Those blue eyes follow me the whole way. I can feel them burning into my back long after I've left his line of sight.
By the time I make it back to my hidden nest, I'm trembling. I collapse onto my makeshift nest of blankets and stolen team merchandise, trying in vain to steady my breathing as I clutch the unopened granola bar.
Everything is falling apart.
First Plague discovering signs of my presence in the equipment room. Then Sam's suspicious looks during my ill-advised attempt to establish a cover story.
And now this.
A Ghost in my sanctuary.
Suddenly, my safe haven doesn't feel so safe anymore.
Does Wraith come here often when the team is here? I don't know much about the Ghosts thanks to Wade's paranoia every time he believed I was even thinking about them, but I do know Wraith is known for being so private, so reserved, that he makes Plague seem downright friendly in comparison.
I pick nervously at the scent suppressant patch on the back of my neck. It feels slippery beneath my fingers, like it isn't quite stuck on as much as it should be.
Oh, gods.
What if he caught my scent?
Omegas are rare. Smelling like an omega would immediately narrow down who I am. And single omegas who aren't hanging off an alpha's arm—or the arms of an entire pack—don't easily go unnoticed.
The granola bar wrapper crinkles as I finally open it, more out of nervous habit than actual hunger. I need to think. I need to adapt. I need...
I need to not throw up from stress.
I force myself to take small bites of the granola bar, trying to settle my stomach. On the screens before me, life in the arena continues as normal. Staff members go about their routines. Players come and go from practice. Everything looks perfectly ordinary.
Except nothing is ordinary anymore.
Nothing is secure.
Nothing is certain.
And I have no idea what to do about it.
I switch between camera feeds, searching for any sign of Wraith, but he's vanished as completely as his namesake. The maintenance tunnels appear empty, but I know better now. He could be anywhere down here, moving through the shadows like he owns them.
Which, I suppose, he does. This is his territory, after all. I'm the intruder here. At least he seemed more concerned with hiding his own face than questioning why I was lurking in the tunnels.
But as I curl up on my nest, I can't shake the feeling that something has shifted. Some invisible line has been crossed. This is so much worse than when Plague found the skate.
This time, I’ve been seen.