Chapter 18 – IVY
Chapter
Eighteen
IVY
The past couple of days have blurred together in a strange, quiet haziness that feels less like hiding and more like healing.
We fall into a routine that should feel claustrophobic in such a small space, but with Wraith, it just feels…
right. He holds me every night, barely sleeping, as if he was put on this earth to watch over me like my own personal giant guardian angel.
He sits beside me while I eat overcooked microwaved meals and we watch movies with the volume low.
He patiently teaches me more signs, and while he isn’t particularly communicative, he’s excellent company.
But as one fever fades, a different kind of heat begins to simmer under my skin. At first, I ignore the restlessness, the way my skin feels too tight and my senses seem dialed up to eleven. I blame it on the recovery, on the stress of being in the pack house.
The third night—at least, I think it’s the third night—I wake up from a fitful sleep to a gentle pressure on my shoulder.
Wraith.
My eyes flutter open to find him crouched beside the bed, blue eyes intense with concern. He immediately pulls his hand back when he sees I'm awake, giving me space. The lamp beside the bed highlights the scar that cuts through his right eye, turning it silver.
"What's wrong?" I mumble, trying to push myself up. My body feels heavy, limbs still weighted with sleep and lingering illness. "Did something happen?"
His hands move in those now-familiar gestures, signing something I don't fully catch. When he sees my confusion, he slows down and spells it out with his fingers.
H-E-A-T.
It takes my foggy brain a moment to process what he's saying.
Oh.
He knows.
My hand flies to the back of my neck where I'd placed my scent-blocking patches. They're still there, but when I press against one, it feels loose, barely adhering to my sweat-dampened skin. Between the fever and the shower, they've probably become completely ineffective.
Wraith's massive shoulders are tense as he points to me, then to the window we came in from, making a motion like walking. Then his hands spell out H-O-S-P-I-T-A-L.
The word sends a jolt of pure terror through me. I shake my head violently, pushing myself back against the wall.
“No. No hospital.” The words come out sharper than I intend them to. “They'll ask for ID. Insurance. They'll put me in the system. I can’t take that kind of risk.”
I can see the conflict in Wraith's eyes. He wants to help, but he doesn't know how. His hands hover in the air between us, uncertain, but I can at least tell he isn’t going to force me to go.
"I can't," I say, softer now. "Please. No hospital."
He sighs, nods, points to himself, and signs O-K… U-N-D-E-R-S-T-A-N-D. There's a weariness in his eyes that makes me wonder if he hates hospitals as much as I do. The scars certainly hint at medical trauma of his own.
I let out a shaky breath, trying to think through my options.
Going to a hospital is out of the question.
Staying here, in a pack house full of alphas—and in one's room, to make matters worse—while my heat approaches is equally risky. I need suppressants. The strong kind for emergencies, not the pills I’ve been relying on. Pills I could just… throw up again.
Wraith tilts his head, waiting patiently.
"Could you get me a heat suppressant shot?" I ask finally. "From a clinic, I mean. You're an alpha, and a professional athlete. They'd give it to you, no questions asked. Just tell them it's for… your girlfriend, or something."
His eyes widen slightly above his mask in obvious surprise. But he nods.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
He hesitates, then signs something I’m pretty sure is a question about if I’m okay staying here alone.
“I’ll be fine,” I assure him, even as another chill races through me. "I just need to take it easy. The suppressant will help with the rest."
He doesn't look convinced. He takes out his phone, points to it, then to me, and shrugs with his palms up, questioning.
“Do I have a phone?” I translate. He nods. “Yeah, I do. It's in my backpack on the couch.” I manage a dry laugh. “It’s just not good enough to use for much, so I don’t really bother.”
He lifts my backpack off the seat and sets it on the bed next to me.
I fish the burner phone out as Wraith scribbles something on a piece of paper.
When he hands it to me, it takes me a moment to figure out what it even says.
It's numbers, I think, but his handwriting is so bad, it feels like deciphering a puzzle.
Now I see why he doesn't just write things down.
"Is this your number?" I ask.
He nods.
I put his number in my contacts under "Wraith." For a moment, I wonder what his real name is, but it's not like I've given him mine. That feels… strangely intimate. Which is funny, considering we’ve cuddled and slept together in the same bed.
"Is this right?" I ask him, holding up the phone for him to see. Even that feels exhausting.
He checks, then nods. He points to his mouth through his mask and shakes his head, then points to ear and nods. Then he makes a texting motion with his thumbs and nods again.
"You can't speak, but you can hear me if I call, and you can text back," I translate.
Another nod.
"I promise I'll call if I need anything," I say, trying to sound stronger than I feel. "The fever's breaking, I think. I'll just rest until you get back."
He studies me for another long moment, like he's memorizing my face.
Then he rises to his feet in one fluid motion and moves to a chest of drawers near the window.
As if it weighs as much as an empty cardboard box, he lifts it and carries it over to what looks like a trapdoor in the floor.
An entrance I hadn't even noticed before.
He sets the chest down, checking beneath it and making a final adjustment to make sure it covers the hatch.
The message is clear.
No one's getting in while he's gone.
He returns to the side of the bed and places a glass of water, some salted crackers, another sports drink, a cup of applesauce, a cup of ice chips, and more fever reducers within my reach. Everything I could possibly need while he's gone.
Our eyes meet, and something passes between us. A strange understanding that makes my chest hum. Then he turns and pulls the window open. He glances back to me once, as if he wants to say something else, but doesn't. He disappears into the late afternoon light and shuts the window behind him.
The quiet that follows his departure feels strangely hollow.
I lay motionless for several minutes, listening to the sounds of the pack house settling around me. It's empty, at least.
With effort, I push myself to a sitting position. The room spins briefly, but the nausea from earlier seems to have subsided. I take the pills Wraith left, washing them down with cool water and ice chips that soothe my raw throat.
Now that I'm alone, the reality of my situation crashes over me like a wave.
I'm going into heat.
In a pack house full of alphas.
With an abusive ex who would tear apart cities to find me.
And my only ally is a feral, seven-foot-tall, mask-wearing, mute hockey player named Wraith who is notorious for violence on the ice and communicates through growls and basic sign language.
If this were happening to someone else, I might laugh at the absurdity of it all. But there's nothing funny about heat when you're alone and vulnerable. Without proper care, whether it's medication or taking an alpha's knot, heats can be dangerous. And my body is already weakened by illness.
My inner omega is starting to stir, responding to the hormonal changes beginning in my body.
The familiar restlessness, the heightened sensitivity to touch and smell, the subtle warming of my skin that has nothing to do with fever.
Early signs, but unmistakable. I have maybe twelve hours before it picks up speed.
I need to do something. Anything. Sitting here waiting and doing nothing while Wraith is gone isn't an option.
A bath. That's what I need. Something to cool my overheated skin and wash away the feverish sweat clinging to me. Maybe it will help clear my head enough to think of what to do next.
With a deep breath to steel myself for feeling even shittier, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand carefully. My legs wobble but hold my weight. Progress. When I pick up my backpack, I wobble again, but somehow manage to not lose my balance.
One hand trailing along the wall for support, I shuffle to the bathroom and push open the door, setting my backpack on the tile floor beside the glass stall with the shower and bathtub.
I turn on the faucet, adjusting the temperature until it's lukewarm. Not cold enough to shock my system, but cool enough to bring relief. As the tub fills, I rummage through my backpack, searching for the emergency supplies I always carry.
My fingers close around a small packet of heat-suppressant bath salts. They're not powerful—nothing like the medical-grade shot I need—but they might help take the edge off and, more importantly, help mask my scent from any alphas that might be prowling nearby.
Alphas that might be much worse than Wraith.
They almost certainly are.
What kind of alpha does what Wraith just did for me? Goes out of his way to help an omega safely suppress a heat rather than trying to take advantage of the situation?
Not the kind I'm used to, that's for sure.
Wade would have seen my impending heat as an opportunity, a chance to exert control. He always did. Used my biology against me, made me feel weak and dependent and ashamed.
"Omegas need alphas during heat, Ivy. It's biology. You're being ungrateful."
The burn scar on my shoulder throbs with remembered pain. I press my palm against it, feeling the raised, uneven texture beneath my fingers. If Wade was the living embodiment of everything wrong with alphas, then Wraith feels like his polar opposite.
Quiet where Wade was loud. Patient where Wade was demanding. Respectful where Wade was... not.
And god, devastatingly attractive in a way that makes my stomach flutter despite everything.
Those piercing blue eyes communicate more than most people manage with their entire faces.
His imposing physique may terrify his opponents, but not me.
I've seen the careful control in every movement, the surprising grace in his massive frame.
And while he clearly hates his scars, they have the opposite effect on me. He’s genuinely attractive, not just kind, even though I know whatever he keeps so carefully hidden beneath his mask must be more severe.
I've been conditioned to expect the worst from alphas. To see kindness as the first move in a longer game of manipulation. To always be waiting for the catch, the moment when the mask slips and the monster beneath is revealed.
But what if there isn't a monster this time?
My instincts sure as hell say there isn't.
I turn on the water, surprised by how easily my thoughts drift back toward Wraith as I watch the tub fill up. But maybe it's healthy that I can recognize attraction without immediately feeling terrified and vulnerable.
I pour the crystalline contents into the bathwater, watching as they dissolve into a pale blue cloud. The subtle scent of mint and sage rises with the steam, designed to neutralize the sweet, alluring pheromones my body will soon be pumping out in waves.
Stripping off Wraith's oversized sweatshirt and my clothes feels like shedding a layer of protection, but the promise of clean, soothing water is too tempting to resist. I step into the bath carefully, lowering myself inch by inch until I'm fully submerged up to my shoulders.
Even from here, I can catch his soothing midnight forest scent clinging to the shirt he gave me. The thought of scent matches circles back to me as I sink deeper into the water, letting it lap at my chin.
I'd brushed the possibility aside before. If we were matches, surely he would have said something, done something. That's what alphas do.
But I'm starting to wonder if I was wrong.
If he wouldn't tell me after all.
Wraith is almost painfully shy for an alpha. Trying not to scare me, hiding his face, flinching from his own reflection. Nothing like the assertive alphas I've known who would use a match as immediate claim to possession.
I turn the water off with my foot so I can hear better. Just in case. Even though I know logically no one is getting in, not with the dresser blocking the hatch in the floor.
The water cradles me as these thoughts swirl, supporting my aching muscles and cooling my feverish skin. For a few precious moments, I allow myself to simply exist.
No planning.
No panic.
No constant vigilance.
Just the gentle embrace of warm water.