Chapter 20 – WRAITH
Chapter
Twenty
WRAITH
Istand in the parking lot of the clinic, frozen, jaw locked tight beneath my mask. Been staring at those automatic doors for five minutes now. Every muscle tenses against the idea of going inside.
Hospitals.
Clinics.
Doctors.
Places of exposure. Vulnerability. Pain.
My still feral instincts beg me to leave. To go somewhere else. Anywhere else. The closest clinic besides this one is twenty minutes away. Too far when the omega waiting in my den needs me back soon.
I check the grip of my mask again, making sure it's secure. My fingers trace the familiar edge. Pull it tighter, though it's already rubbing my skin raw.
For her.
That's all that matters.
One step. Another. Halfway across the parking lot when a shriek cuts through the evening air that makes me jolt instinctively, my hand flying up to my mask.
"OH MY GOD! WRAITH?!"
Fuck.
A group of young omegas spills out of a car two spots away. College freshmen, dressed for a night out. Five of them, eyes wide, phones already coming up like weapons.
“It’s really him!” One grabs another's arm, practically vibrating with excitement. “Holy shit! He’s so tall!”
They swarm toward me, cutting off my path to the clinic entrance. Blocking my escape route back to my blacked-out SUV. Surrounding me.
Too close.
Invading my space.
My lungs constrict.
Just one of many reasons I don't go out.
Not before midnight.
"Can we get a picture? Please?" The boldest one positions herself beside me before I get a chance to answer. Another steps in front, phone ready. She takes a picture with a click. I flinch.
Words pour from them, overlapping, suffocating. The smell of their excited omega scents—candy sweet and cloying, like maple syrup left in the sun—fills my head. The muscles in my forearms and hands tremor as I try to endure this for them.
Not their fault I hate this.
They mean well.
Just fans.
One leans in, whispering to her friend but not quietly enough. She's giddy with nerves. "Holy shit, the group chat was right. I think the scar's real..."
My jaw tightens beneath the mask.
As if I'd want to look like this.
"Just one more picture? Our friends will never believe we met you!"
I step back, giving a single reluctant nod for a final photo.
They crowd around me, arms stretched, phones angled.
More pictures.
More whispers.
When they finish, I tilt my head in acknowledgment and move quickly toward the clinic entrance. Their excited chatter follows me like a shadow.
"He didn't say a word. Is he always this quiet?"
"I think he's mute."
"Nah. That's an act. He's just shy around pretty omegas."
They giggle again. More whispers I can't catch.
Don't want to anyway.
The doors slide open, antiseptic scent hitting me like a wall and driving out the lingering syrupy sweet scents burning my nose.
Memories flicker.
Pain. Bandages. So many surgeries.
Nurses with pitying glances.
Doctors talking over me like I wasn't there.
Like I was already dead.
The pharmacy counter sits at the back. Three people ahead of me. I stand behind them, keeping my distance. Checking my mask again even though I know it's secure.
Has to be.
Nobody's panicking.
The line moves slowly. Each person taking forever, asking questions that don't matter. Small talk that makes no sense. Every moment in this place pushes me closer to the brink of my sanity.
Finally, I reach the counter.
The pharmacist looks up, her beta scent neutral but her expression cautious. "Can I help you?" Her voice is professional, but already tinged with wariness.
I give her a brief wave in greeting and take out my phone, typing quickly.
Need heat suppressant shot.
Her eyebrows raise as she reads the screen. "I'll need to see your ID."
My stomach drops.
Knew this was coming.
Doesn't make it easier.
My driver's license. The piece of identification I hate most. The one thing that shows...
Everything.
I reach into my pocket, retrieving my wallet with fingers that suddenly feel clumsy. The license sits in its clear plastic sleeve, always reversed when not in use. Hate catching glimpses of the picture on the front by accident.
I slide it across the counter, facedown, trying not to look at it.
Catch a glimpse anyway.
It's worse than I remember.
Always is.
Mind blocks it out when I'm not confronted directly with it.
The pharmacist takes the license. She tries—fails—to keep her expression neutral as she looks at the photo.
The blood drains from her face.
Her eyes widen slightly.
She glances up at me, then back down at the license. Then up again with that familiar look.
Shock.
Feels like my throat is closing.
Can't breathe right. My heart thrums against my ribs like it's trying to escape, to distance itself from the monstrosity attached to it.
"I, um, need to scan this and verify this is you." She clears her throat. "Could you lower your mask?"
I freeze.
Nobody wants to believe the picture is real. That I'm not fucking with them. She doesn't need me to pull my mask down. The scar over my eye already gives me away. The one thing I can't hide. She knows I'm the monster on my ID.
She just wants to see.
To confirm it's real.
To have a story to tell later.
I check over my shoulder. No one is watching right now. All busy with their phones, all in their own worlds.
Taking a deep breath to steel myself, I hook a finger under the edge of my mask. The fabric clings, as if trying to protect me from what's about to happen. I tug it down just for a second.
Her reaction is immediate. Visceral.
Fear spikes her scent, sharp and acrid. My ID falls from her hand to the counter with a clatter that draws eyes.
I jerk the mask back up, securing it tightly before anyone else sees and all hell breaks loose. The momentary exposure leaves me feeling flayed. Raw. Vulnerable in a way that makes me lightheaded, makes my skin crawl.
Her eyes widen, then dart away, unable to maintain contact with what she just saw. She swallows hard, throat bobbing. Looks like she's going to faint. Wishes she hadn't asked.
That makes two of us.
She busies herself with her computer, typing with shaking fingers. "W-what's the suppressant for?" she asks, her voice unnaturally high. "Um, I mean, who's it for?"
Another unnecessary question. Alphas can get whatever we want, no questions asked. Another excuse to keep talking, to pretend she's not fucking traumatized.
I sigh and type another message.
Girlfriend.
The omega's suggestion rings in my head.
Simple word. Sharp edges.
Carves out something hollow inside me.
The lie sits between us like a third person.
Not for me. For her safety.
Just another mask.
The disbelief anyone would want to be with someone like me flashes across the pharmacist's face before she can hide it. She nods anyway, professional mask slipping back into place as she types in her computer. "Right. Of course," she says hoarsely.
The skepticism rolls off her in waves.
Let her think what she wants.
Doesn't matter.
All that matters is getting this shot.
She turns to go to the shelves of medication. Wipes her hand on her lab coat first. She doesn't want to have touched something I touched. Even my ID.
The gesture isn't lost on me.
Another small humiliation to add to the collection.
I take my ID card off the counter before she remembers to scan it in. Won't be able to show everyone later, then.
Last thing I need is a leak.
Not that it matters.
I'm leaving anyway.
This is just another reminder of why.
When she comes back, she holds a small box and a pamphlet.
"It's an auto-injector, like an EpiPen," she explains, not able to meet my eyes.
Her shoulders are trembling. Feel bad for scaring her.
"There are two shots here. Give them to her exactly three days apart in the upper thigh.
Both doses are required for the suppressant to work properly.
Oh, and have her lie down before you give it to her in case she gets lightheaded. "
I nod, taking the box.
Vaguely sign a thanks and a sorry.
She gives me a confused frown.
Doesn't know what it means.
Shouldn't have thought she would. Stressed enough I'm not thinking clearly.
"You know," she continues, her voice taking on a patronizing tone. "Suppressants aren't ideal for long-term use. Omegas should really be handling heats the natural way. You shouldn't let her take these medications. Knotting is healthier for them. If she refuses…"
A low growl rumbles in my chest, making her jolt. Cutting her off.
Good.
I don't feel bad for frightening her this time.
It's not the implication that no one would want me.
That part is true.
It's the implication that omegas aren't people with choices.
That I shouldn't "let" an omega do what she wants.
That I should force her.
I stare in silence at her, and she shifts, suddenly aware she's said something wrong. Must see the irritation in what little of my face she can see now, even though I'm managing to keep the growl quiet. The feral instincts still lingering want to escalate into a full-blown snarl.
"I just mean... medically speaking..."
I ignore her, typing on my phone again.
Nausea medication too.
She blinks, thrown by the abrupt change. "Oh. Sure."
The rest of the transaction passes in tense silence. She hands over another box with pills, explains the dosage without making eye contact.
I leave the moment I can, heading back toward the pack house. Toward the only person other than Thane who has seen my scars and hasn't reacted with visible shock and horror.
Not yet, anyway.