Chapter 11 – IVY
Chapter
Eleven
IVY
Iwake up to my stomach trying to turn itself inside out.
The nausea hits me in waves, each one stronger than the last. I barely have time to grab the trash can beside the couch before I'm retching into it, my body wracked with violent shudders. Nothing much comes up—I haven't eaten enough for that—but the heaving doesn't stop.
When it finally subsides, I collapse back into my makeshift nest of blankets and Ghosts merch, trembling and covered in a fresh sheen of cold sweat. My head pounds with every heartbeat, and my throat burns worse than before.
I feel like I'm fucking dying.
Strangely, I'm too exhausted to give a shit. At least if I die here, Wade definitely won't find me. I close my eyes, trying to will my body into some semblance of cooperation so I can at least get up the energy to drink something, when I hear it.
A low growl from the hallway.
My eyes snap open. I’m suddenly on high alert despite the fever making everything feel distant and hazy.
I know that sound. Heard it echoing in the tunnels just yesterday, coming from a masked alpha the size of a freaking polar bear.
Wraith.
A massive alpha hockey player who could snap me in half without breaking a sweat is standing outside my door in the middle of the night like some kind of guardian, afraid to knock because… why? Because he knows his presence would scare the shit out of me if I knew he's right fucking there?
Strangely, I'm not scared.
Or maybe I'm just so sick, I can't be.
My stomach lurches again and I barely get the trash can in position before I'm dry heaving, my body trying to expel something that isn't there. The sound is pathetic and desperate, echoing in the small space.
Another growl.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, trying to focus through the haze of fever and nausea. That growl sounded more distressed than the usual soft growls I've heard him make when he doesn't even seem to realize he's doing it. More like he's trying to ask if I'm okay, but he can't.
I slump back against the nest, pulling his blanket tighter around my shoulders. The scent of it—that wild, clean smell clinging to the thick fabric—is the only thing keeping me grounded right now. The only thing that doesn't make my stomach revolt.
Another wave of nausea hits and I lean over the trash can again, gagging on nothing.
My whole body shakes with the effort, and before I know it, I'm on my side on the floor, the trash can and its contents spilled beside me.
I hear myself make this awful, broken sound I don't even recognize as coming from me.
That does it.
The door rattles as Wraith tries the handle. Locked, obviously.
If I had the strength, I'd tell him to leave. But I can't get the words out between the shivering and the nausea and the overwhelming feeling that I'm about to die alone from dehydration in this abandoned VIP suite. Or exposure, because now I'm on the cold fucking floor.
Unless I find a way to open the door and let Wraith in, or tell him to bring a crowbar or something. Too bad I can't even lift my head.
"Help," I whisper pathetically.
Shit. There's no way he heard that. And I don't even know if he can hear anything. He's mute, so maybe—
CRACK.
The door doesn't shatter so much as surrender. One moment it's locked, the next Wraith's massive shoulder has forced it open, the doorframe splintering under the pressure. He barely had to try.
I blink up blearily at Wraith, frozen in the doorway, silhouetted by the dim emergency lighting from the hallway.
Even hunched slightly, trying to make himself smaller, he's enormous.
His choppy dark hair falls across those striking blue eyes as he looks down at me, and I can see the edge of his black gaiter where it covers most of his face.
Hard to be as afraid of this alpha as I probably should be when there's so much worry written all over what little I can see of his face.
He makes another soft growling sound, almost questioning, and takes one careful step into the room. Then another. Moving slowly, deliberately, like he's approaching a wounded animal that might bolt.
Maybe I would if I could move.
He's carrying a new black duffel bag. This one looks even more full than yesterday's care package. When he sets it down beside my nest, I catch a glimpse of more sports drinks, crackers, what looks like cans of soup.
He brought me more supplies.
In the middle of the night.
Because he knew I was sick.
I try to sit up straighter, to not look like a complete disaster covered in puke and sweat, but my body has other ideas. I end up slumping forward again and he catches me by the shoulders, my head flopping forward uselessly as I shiver violently enough that my teeth chatter.
Wraith makes a low, distressed sound in his throat and lifts me easily back into the nest, pulling my blankets around me. Much to my humiliation, he wipes at my face with a towel, then pours water from a bottle onto another and uses that one to finish cleaning me up.
Fuck, I wish he wouldn't do that. I'm going to die from freaking embarrassment if this wonderful mystery illness doesn't get me.
Then he crouches down beside my nest, making himself smaller, less threatening.
Even with me up on the couch, he's eye level with me.
He pulls off one of his fingerless gloves and I notice his hands and forearms are scarred, but not with a cut like the scar over his right eye. These are burns, maybe.
He reaches toward me slowly, giving me plenty of time to flinch away. When I don't—can't, really—his huge hand gently presses against my forehead.
I'm burning up. I know I am. But his touch feels cool and soothing against my fevered skin.
His eyes widen and he makes another concerned growling sound, reaching for the duffel bag to pull out a bottle of water and a packet of fever reducers. He shakes two pills into his scarred palm, then offers them to me with an expectant look.
I should probably question whether I should trust mystery pills from a stranger, labeled packet or not. But honestly? I'm too sick to overthink this.
I take the pills from his palm—his skin is warm and rough against my fingers—and he immediately uncaps the water bottle for me. I down the pills and take a few careful sips, my aching, burning throat protesting even that small amount.
When I lower the bottle, he's still watching me with those intense blue eyes. Waiting to see if I need anything else.
"Thank you," I whisper. "Can you hear? I know you can't speak."
He nods and reaches for the bag again. This time he pulls out a microwavable heating pad and what looks like a cold compress. He holds them both up, tilting his head in question.
I'm shivering so hard my whole body aches with it, so I point weakly at the heating pad.
He nods and disappears into the hallway. I hear the distant sound of a microwave—there's an old break room a few doors down that I sometimes use—and he's back within minutes, the heating pad warm and ready.
Instead of just handing it to me, he carefully tucks it against my lower back where I'm curled up, adjusting the blanket around me to keep the heat in. His movements are gentle, almost reverent, like he's afraid he'll break me if he's not careful enough.
It feels so good I could cry. The warmth seeps into my aching muscles, easing some of the violent shivering.
Wraith settles himself on the floor beside my nest, his back against the wall. Not crowding me, but close enough that I can reach him if I need to. He draws his knees up—his legs are so long, he still takes up half the small space—and watches me with that same concerned expression.
We stay like that for a while. Him watching over me, me trying not to throw up again.
I feel like I should probably be more uncomfortable with this, but I'm so fucking exhausted.
And he's warm and solid and here, and some traitorous part of me wants to lean into that instead of push it away like I usually would.
"You don't have to stay," I manage to croak out between shivers.
He makes a firm, negative sound. A grunt that clearly means not happening.
"I'm sick and gross and stink and—"
Another negative grunt, this one almost sounding offended that I'd suggest such a thing.
I huff out something that might be a laugh if I had the energy for it. "You're stubborn."
His concerned eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, like he's smiling beneath the mask.
The heating pad helps, but I'm still shivering. My teeth won't stop chattering no matter how many blankets I pile on. Wraith notices—of course he does—and makes a questioning sound, pointing at himself and then at me.
It takes my fever-addled brain a moment to understand what he's offering.
Body heat.
He's offering to share body heat.
I nod before I talk myself out of it.
Wraith's eyes widen slightly, like he didn't expect me to agree. He moves slowly, carefully settling onto the couch with one of his legs over the side and his foot on the floor. He's positioned himself as physically off the couch as possible. He pats his chest twice, an invitation.
I hesitate for just a moment before dragging myself over to him. It takes more effort than it should—my limbs feel like they weigh a thousand pounds—but I manage to curl up against his side, my head resting on his broad chest.
He's so… warm.
The heat radiating from him seeps into my chilled body, and I can't help the small sound of relief that escapes me. I burrow closer, seeking more of that warmth, and feel his arm come around me. Carefully. Hesitantly. Like he's not sure if he's allowed to touch me.
"S'okay," I mumble against his chest. "You can... it's fine."
His arm settles more firmly around me, his huge hand spread across my back. Not restraining, just... holding me. The other hand comes up to gently adjust the blankets around me, making sure I'm covered.