Chapter 10 – PLAGUE
Chapter
Ten
PLAGUE
Istare at the stack of pancakes in front of me, methodically flipping another golden disk onto the growing pile. The rhythmic motion is soothing, helping to quiet the chaos in my mind after yet another restless night.
My dreams have never been particularly normal, but last night's were stranger than usual. Fragments of honeysuckle scent and fleeting glimpses of an omega moving through shadow still refuse to fade, clinging to my consciousness like cobwebs.
All I remember is her honeysuckle scent and hair like fire.
The kitchen is quiet except for the soft sizzle of batter hitting the hot griddle and Whiskey's fork scraping against his plate.
He's already demolished half the stack I set in front of him, though his usual enthusiasm is subdued this morning.
The shadows under his eyes match my own, telling me I wasn't the only one who struggled to sleep last night.
"Thanks for breakfast," Whiskey mumbles around a mouthful of pancake, breaking the comfortable silence. "Thought it was gonna be a protein bar kind of day when I got up late. You really outdid yourself."
I grunt in acknowledgment, not turning from my task. The compliment shouldn't please me as much as it does. I blame the lingering effects of those unsettling dreams for the way my lips threaten to curve upward.
"Didn't realize I made so many," I mutter, frowning at the gigantic pile of pancakes stacking up on the countertop. Evidence of my distraction. The phantom scent of wild honeysuckle keeps pulling at my attention, making it hard to focus. "Must have been lost in thought."
“Same,” Whiskey says around another mouthful of pancake. “Thinking about the new teammate? What do you think, by the way?”
I pour more batter onto the griddle, watching it spread into a perfect circle. “What do you mean?”
“I dunno. I watched a few clips. He looks and acts like a supervillain. And he’s supposedly Canadian, but his accent is definitely not Canadian. Maybe Russian or—"
"Am I not American because I was born in Jordan?" I ask dryly, cutting him off.
Whiskey's mouth snaps shut. He has the grace to look embarrassed, scratching at the back of his neck. "Shit. No, that's... you're right. That was stupid of me. It's just..." He pokes at his pancakes, trailing off.
“It’s just what? That you’re worried about Wraith, so you’re spinning conspiracy theories to distract yourself?”
Whiskey deflates slightly. "Maybe," he admits. "But I found one of those fan chats, and someone said he was charged with murder or some shit and fled to Canada. And they had the receipts."
"And I heard he moved to Canada as a child. Does it matter?" I ask flatly. "And don't read comments about the pack on the Internet. That's never a good idea."
"Why not? Mine were all positive," he says. "I'm just saying, it's weird. And if you heard that, then you were looking that shit up, too."
My lip curls in irritation at that. And I don't miss the emphasis on mine. "Yes, well, everything seems weird when you're looking for patterns that aren't there." I slide another perfect pancake onto the stack. "Sometimes a hockey player is just a hockey player."
"Do you always have to be the voice of reason?"
"Someone has to be. You're one step away from building a conspiracy wall with red string. Are you forgetting the conspiracy theories you came up with about me when I first joined the team?" I level a pointed stare at him.
He laughs at that, the tension finally breaking. "Fine, fine. You made your point." He devours another pancake in record time. “These really are good today, by the way. If I didn't know better, I'd think you made all these just because you have a thing for big guys.”
The spatula nearly slips out of my hand at Whiskey's words. I manage to catch it before it clatters to the floor, but the pancake I'm flipping lands with an undignified splat on the edge of the griddle.
"What?"
"You heard me." Whiskey's smirk is audible even without looking at him. "Big guys. Like me."
I turn slowly, arching an eyebrow at him. "And what exactly gave you that impression?"
He leans back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe the way you were checking out my ass when I came into the kitchen? You tryin' to help me bulk?" He flexes with a playful grin, patting his stomach for emphasis.
"I was not—" I cut myself off, taking a deep breath. “I was distracted.”
"Uh-huh. Sure, man," he says, scratching languidly at his broad chest like a grizzly bear waking up from hibernation. “Distracted by my ass.”
“No,” I snap, turning back to the stove.
The pancake currently on the griddle is burning.
Perfect. I hear him stand, his heavy footsteps approaching.
Every muscle in my body tenses as he draws closer.
I grip the spatula tighter, barely restraining myself from smacking him with it as he comes up behind me.
"Whatever you're doing, don't," I growl.
"Or you're gonna kill me with that frying pan?"
He's right behind me now. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body and catch his scent. Like cinnamon and bourbon and apple pie on a stormy day.
I might put him in a pie.
My grip on the spatula tightens.
He sighs, still way too close for comfort, and I shirk away from him. "Chill out. I'm just fuckin' with you," he says with a low chuckle.
"Well, fuck with someone else," I bite out.
He stretches his huge arms. “I might actually take a nap. Didn’t sleep too good. Had crazy dreams.”
He says that like he wants me to ask about them. I’m stressed out enough to take the bait. “I thought you didn’t dream,” I remark. “Isn’t that a point of pride for you? How you never dream because you’re always alert and ready for action?”
“Yeah, and that’s what’s weird,” he says. “I had a wacky dream about an omega in the arena."
I almost lose another pancake.
"I did, too," I hear myself saying.
His normally warm eyes lock onto mine, all traces of playfulness gone. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, the air too thick. The earlier banter evaporates in an instant.
"What did you see?" he asks, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "In your dream?"
"She was..." I trail off, trying to capture the ethereal quality that had haunted my sleep. "Like a ghost. Moving through the shadows of the maintenance tunnels and back rooms. She smelled like…”
“Like honey and flowers?”
My head snaps up. "Honeysuckle."
He gives me a blank stare. "Uh… she didn't suck my—"
"No," I bite, cutting him off. "That isn't what I meant. Honeysuckle is a flowering vine, Whiskey."
More staring. Then his eyes light up. "Ohhh. Right. Those pretty flowers that grow on bushes. I used to eat 'em growing up. The berries fucked up my stomach, though..."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Let's get back to the subject," I say, sighing. "What else do you remember?"
"Red hair," he says without hesitation. "A rich red, like fox fur."
"Auburn," I murmur, a strange yearning coming over me.
"Auburn," Whiskey repeats, rolling the word around in his mouth like he's tasting it. "You been reading the dictionary again?"
I roll my eyes, turning back to the stove to flip the last pancake. It's burnt beyond salvation. Not that it matters. At this point, I'm just using up all the batter because I need to have something to do with my hands. I scrape it into the trash and start cleaning up, my mind racing.
Whiskey can't read my mind, can he?
No. That’s impossible.
Terrifying, but impossible.
I turn to grab a dish towel only to find myself face-to-face with a wall of padded muscle. Whiskey's somehow managed to position himself directly behind me, effectively trapping me between his body and the counter.
"Move," I growl.
He doesn't budge, still smirking. "Magic word?"
I curl my lip at him. "Now."
For a moment, I think he's going to refuse and I'm going to snap. Everything happening right now has me too tightly wound to put up with his bullshit. But moments before my control starts to slip, he steps back, palms raised in mock surrender.
"Alright, alright. Sorry, bro."
I shove past him, but it's like shoving against a solid brick wall. The padding on his midsection just makes him sturdier. “As much as I’m enjoying psychoanalyzing our dreams, we should get going," I say, my voice clipped. "Thane's probably wondering where we are."
Whiskey nods, suddenly all business. It's a jarring shift, but one I'm grateful for. "Yeah, good call. Hey, if we're early, maybe we can check the tunnels. Find Wraith while we're at it."
"I'd rather not end up folded into a damn pretzel by a territorial feral alpha, thanks," I mutter, lifting my charcoal wool coat off the rack and checking the inner pocket to make sure I have a few extra surgical masks tucked away.
But even if Wraith didn't haunt the dank maintenance halls and back rooms like the Phantom of the Opera with rabies, I wouldn't be caught dead down there. The rest of the arena is filthy enough as it is.
Although that dream Whiskey and I apparently shared is making me wonder if I should get over it. Perhaps the dream does mean something more.
Perhaps it wasn't just a dream at all.