Chapter 8 – IVY
Chapter
Eight
IVY
"You bit my fucking finger off!"
Wade's roar cuts through the darkness. I'm running, but the hallway of our house keeps stretching longer and longer, the front door getting further away with each step.
My lungs burn as I try to run faster, but it's like moving through molasses. The fresh mark on my shoulder burns, his claim searing into my skin like a brand. I claw at it, desperate to get it off, to get him off me.
"You ungrateful little bitch! After everything I've done for you!"
The front door is right there. Just a few more steps. But my legs won't move. I'm frozen, paralyzed as his shadow looms over me—
I jerk awake with a gasp, heart pounding.
For a moment, I'm back there, back to that terrible night.
The bus station at three in the morning, nothing but a backpack and the clothes on my back.
The smell of diesel fuel burning my nose.
Counting out crumpled bills for a ticket to the only place I could think of where Wade would never look for me.
His biggest rivals' arena.
I'm here.
I'm safe.
He hasn't found me yet.
Unlike in my recurring nightmares, I actually escaped. I can still taste the copper tang of blood in my mouth from where I bit through his finger when he grabbed my hair to wrench me away from the door.
He tells everyone it was a dog attack. A dog mauling, to be specific. Can't have the media knowing his omega fought back. But I have the satisfaction of knowing I took a piece of him with me when I ran.
Letting out a shaky breath, I sit up, raking my hands through my hair. Why is it soaked? Why am I so cold? It only takes a moment before I realize the simple act of sitting up has left me winded and shivering.
I'm not just quaking from the nightmare. Whatever was making me feel like shit last night has come back with a vengeance.
Groaning, I slump back into my nest of scraps, trying to burrow deeper into the darkness.
It doesn't help. My throat feels like I've swallowed broken glass, each attempt to swallow sending shards of pain radiating through my neck.
My body aches, muscles protesting even the slightest movement.
And despite the chill of the abandoned VIP suite I call home, I'm drenched in sweat.
Yep. I'm sick.
Very, very sick.
For a moment, I let myself indulge in self-pity.
I imagine what it would be like to be curled up in a real bed right now instead of on a couch in the bowels of a hockey arena, with soft pillows and warm blankets instead of a nest of clothes and towels.
To have someone bring me soup and tea, to stroke my hair and tell me everything will be okay.
But no one's coming to take care of me.
No one even knows I'm in here.
And that's exactly how it needs to stay.
Groaning, I push myself into a sitting position, wincing as the movement sends a fresh wave of pain through my skull.
But as shitty as I feel, I need to get some supplies.
Water, at the very least, and hopefully some of those delicious blue electrolyte drinks from the vending machine that usually stocks things like that.
My exhausted body protests as I pull on the baggy maintenance uniform that's become my second skin. I tuck my hair under a cap, wincing as even that light pressure on my scalp aggravates my needling headache.
The cold air hits me like a slap to the face as soon as I slip out into the hall and I shiver despite the fever I can feel burning through me.
Or maybe because of it. The arena is always cold—it has to be, it’s a freaking hockey arena—but today, it feels particularly biting.
I pull my jacket tighter around me, wishing I had thought to grab an extra layer.
The first vending machine I come to is a bust. Water, soda, more demon-themed hyper-caffeinated drinks than anyone could ever possibly need.
But no sports drinks. Nothing with electrolytes.
I move on to the next one, trying to ignore the way the flickering fluorescent lights make my head throb even more.
No luck there either.
Or at the next one.
Or the one after that.
By the time I've checked half a dozen machines throughout the tunnels and back rooms, I'm starting to feel desperate and panicked. All I've managed to find is a mostly empty first aid kit with an expired aspirin packet that’s better than nothing, but not by much.
The defeated journey back to my room feels ten times longer than the trip out. Every step is an effort of will, my vision blurring at the edges as I force myself to keep moving.
It’s insanely unfair that this fever is fucking me over so hard. I could apparently power through burning off my mark with a flat iron in the bathroom of a bus station so Wade couldn’t track me as easily, but this stupid fever has knocked me flat on my ass.
When I round the corner, I stop dead in my tracks.
There, on a small utility table beside the maintenance door that leads to my sanctuary, sits a bag. A plain black duffel bag that absolutely, positively was not there when I left.
For a long moment, I just stand there, staring at it like it might sprout legs and skitter away. Or maybe explode. Neither would surprise me at this point.
The bag is positioned deliberately. Not randomly dropped or forgotten, but placed exactly where I'd see it. The zipper is partially open as if to deliberately reveal the electric blue of several sports drinks identical to the ones I've been searching for all morning.
And next to the bag sits a steaming cup of what appears to be microwaveable chicken noodle soup, the steam curling up in lazy wisps.
My blood runs cold.
Someone not only knows I'm here, someone knows I'm sick and left supplies. Why the fuck would they do that?
The impossible thought of Wade finding me and doing this to intimidate me makes my stomach lurch for the split second my feverish mind entertains it. No. Wade would never be this subtle. If he found me, I'd know it.
I yoink the bag off the table and fumble with my keycard to unlock my room. I don’t breathe, let alone examine the contents of the bag, until I’m safely inside my room and the door is locked behind me.
There’s a box of fever reducers, the seals intact. Hand warmers, a huge pair of wool gloves, those instant ice packs you activate by crushing them. Salted crackers. Even a package of herbal tea with immunity boosters.
Then my hands brush against something unexpectedly soft. Confused, I tug it out of the bag. It's a thick wool blanket in the Ghosts' black and gray team colors. And the masculine scent of whoever brought me the makeshift care package is all over it.
Instinctively, I lift the blanket to my face and take in a deep breath, hoping for a clue.
Foggy mountain forest.
The scent immediately links with the fresh memory of the encounter in the back room by the old loading dock last night. The feeling of being watched, then turning around and seeing that massive masked alpha with burning blue eyes looming in the doorway behind me.
Wraith.
He must have brought this to me.
But… why?
Does he know I’m sick? Has he been following me? Was I too sick to even notice?
Wraith is an alpha. This could either be a genuine act of kindness or a message that he's stalking me and knows exactly where I am. Knowing alphas, it’s the latter, but I didn’t get that vibe from the silent giant.
Somehow, my gut instinct is telling me I'm safe. And after what happened with Wade, I promised myself I'd never ignore my instincts again.
Mustering up the very last dregs of my strength, I haul myself back to my feet and cautiously open the door to peer out into the hall. Listening carefully for any sign I'm not alone, I wait for a few moments, but no one's there.
When I'm sure the coast is clear, I slip out into the hall to grab the cup of soup and dart back into the room as fast as I can. Which isn't fast because I'm so freaking sick, the sudden motion makes my head spin.
Settling back into my nest with the cup in my lap, I take one of the electrolyte bottles out of the bag and a packet of fever reducers.
I check to make sure the bottle hasn’t been tampered with before taking a few gulps to wash down the pills.
The drink is colder than I expected, cold enough to make me shiver.
Before I even register what I'm doing, I'm pulling Wraith's wool blanket around my shoulders.
Wraith’s scent is strangely… comforting.
Maybe it wouldn't be dangerous to drink the soup. As I lift it to my lips, the warmth seeping through the cup and into my trembling hands, I hesitate one more time. He could have spiked it. Then again, I’m locked in here, and it took me a long time to find a keycard that works for this door.
I’m also sick as fuck and desperate, and my instincts are still insisting this is safe.
Trying not to let my paranoia get the best of me, I sip the soup slowly through the gap in the lid. The noodles are overcooked—clearly nuked in a microwave—but it soothes my raw throat, the warmth spreading through my chest and heating me up from the inside.
By the time I've finished the soup, a few salted crackers, and the rest of the electrolyte drink, I'm feeling marginally better but too exhausted to function anymore. I snuggle deeper into my makeshift nest, which somehow feels more like a real nest with Wraith’s thick wool blanket wrapped around me.
But it’s impossible to truly get comfortable.
I’ve been discovered. I’m going to have to leave. The problem is, I don’t have enough money for another bus trip. And I can’t live on the streets. Winter is coming.
I’m fucking screwed.