Chapter 21 – WHISKEY
Chapter
Twenty-One
WHISKEY
Two days of radio silence from Wraith, and I'm about ready to crawl out of my own skin.
Practice was a shitshow. Coach spent the whole time screaming about "team cohesion" while our feral power forward was conspicuously absent. Again. Thane covered for him—something about Wraith needing space after the Valek incident—but even Captain Loyalty is starting to look strained.
Plague and I already agreed we're done waiting. Tomorrow, we're confronting Wraith whether he likes it or not. The shared dreams, the tunnel evidence, the way he's been avoiding us like we've got the plague—no pun intended—it all adds up to something big. Something he's hiding.
Something omega-shaped.
"You're walking unnecessarily fast," Plague says, his voice muffled by the surgical mask.
I hadn't realized I was practically speed-walking. "Sorry," I mutter, slowing my pace half a step. "Just want to get back."
"To do what, exactly? Storm the castle? Kick down Wraith's door? Challenge him to a pistol duel at dawn?"
"Don't be an asshole."
"One of us has to be practical."
I shoot him a sideways glance. The man looks like a fucking GQ model even fresh off the ice, not a hair out of place. Perfect jawline, perfect everything.
It's irritating as hell.
"I'm being practical," I argue. "We agreed—tomorrow. That's practical. That's a plan."
"A plan you're going to ruin by being impatient."
I snort. "I've been patient for two fucking days. That's a personal record."
We turn onto the main street leading to our neighborhood, and instantly the air changes. A group of young women across the street spots us, their expressions lighting up. One points, another fumbles for her phone, and then they're crossing toward us, excited whispers carrying on the breeze.
Fuck. Not now.
"Whiskey! Plague! Oh my god!" The leader of the group, a blonde omega, practically bounces as she approaches. "Can we get a picture? Please?"
Plague stiffens beside me. I know he hates this shit—the attention, the photos, the strangers invading his space. But these are fans, and without fans, we don't have jobs. So I plaster on my best "happy to meet you" grin and slip into autopilot.
"Sure thing, darlin'," I drawl, laying the Texas accent on thick. "Always got time for the best fans in the league."
The girl blushes, her fellow omegas giggle, and just like that, I'm in performance mode. The big, friendly "himbo" they expect, whatever the fuck a himbo is. All I know is I keep seeing that word in the fan chats, and it seems to be a good thing.
I throw my arm around Plague's shoulders, feeling him tense under my touch, and drag him into the frame as the girls take turns getting selfies with us.
"We just got pictures with Wraith too!" one of them squeals, showing us her phone. "Can you believe it?"
I nearly choke. "Wraith? Our Wraith?"
"Yeah! At the clinic on Fifth Street."
Plague and I exchange a look. Wraith never goes out in public during the day. Ever. At least not outside of whatever "errands" he runs when he goes out of town for a couple of days and comes back in a shittier mood than usual. Even then, that's rare.
"The omega clinic?" I repeat, trying to keep my tone casual. "When was this?"
"Like the other day," the girl says, scrolling through her photos to show us the photos she and her friends took of our feral power forward. Yep. That's him alright. "He didn't say anything, obviously, but he let us take pictures!"
"Is it true what they're saying about Valek? Your new winger?" another one asks, eyes wide. "That Wraith put him in the hospital?"
Great. News travels fast.
"Nah. Team's just fine," I say with a wink, keeping my tone light. "We're one big happy pack."
They pepper us with more questions. About Thane, about the upcoming season, about whether or not I'm really single. I handle each one with practiced ease, making jokes, flexing a bicep when asked, letting them hang off it like spider monkeys.
All while my mind is elsewhere, racing through what the hell Wraith was doing at an omega clinic in broad daylight.
Finally, Plague clears his throat. "We need to go," he says, voice clipped.
The girls look disappointed but don't argue with the ice king. One last round of photos, a few more autographs, and we're on our way again, their excited chatter fading behind us.
"The omega clinic," I mutter once we're out of earshot. "Shit. That cinches it, huh?"
Plague gives me a sidelong glance. "It would appear so."
"Gotta say, I didn't expect Wraith to be the first one to bring an omega home," I say with a stiff laugh, raking a hand backwards through my hair. It's the only explanation that makes any sense. There's nothing else that's coming to mind for why he'd be there.
"And why not?" Plague asks pointedly, his voice dripping with judgment.
"I'm not insulting him," I say quickly. "Just stating facts. The guy acts like he's allergic to omegas. Or like his face is radioactive or something. Like if an omega sees him without his mask on, they'll spontaneously combust."
"It is surprising they saw him in the middle of the day," Plague admits. "Perhaps he was there for medication. Heat suppressants, if she's approaching a cycle."
"The omega we know he's hiding," I correct him.
The omega with wild honeysuckle scent who calls to me, tugging the cords in my chest like fingers plucking harp strings.
"You handled those fans well," Plague says, changing the subject quickly enough it startles me. "You're surprisingly good at that."
"At what? Being charming? Some of us have social skills, pretty boy."
"At pretending everything's normal when it isn't."
Something in his tone makes me glance over. For once, he doesn't look irritated or superior. He looks almost impressed, even with the mask on. The unexpected half-compliment throws me off.
We walk the rest of the way in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. By the time we reach the pack house, my skin feels too tight, like I'm about to burst out of it. Or tear it off, werewolf style.
I pull my key fob from my pocket, but Plague beats me to the door, his fingerprint already registered on the scanner. The door clicks open, and we step into the pack house.
The place is dead quiet. No sign of Thane, who must still be dealing with the fallout at the arena. No sign of Wraith, either, though that's nothing new.
But for the first time, the silence feels deliberate.
Weighted with secrets.
"I'm going to shower," Plague announces, already heading for the stairs. "I'm not spending another minute covered in post-practice filth. And don't snoop. The last thing I want to find is whatever's between your ears splattered all over the wall because you set Wraith off."
"Yeah, sure," I mutter, but my mind is already spinning.
While Plague disappears upstairs, I move through the first floor, checking rooms, listening for any unusual sounds.
Nothing in the kitchen, living room, gym, or media room.
I wasn't really expecting to find anything.
If Wraith brought the omega here, he'd keep her close.
Protected. And he doesn't spend time in the common areas.
Which means she's upstairs. In his private loft.
I wait until I hear Plague's shower running before making my move. Taking the stairs two at a time, I reach the top floor where our personal suites are located. Mine and Plague's are on one end of the hall, Thane's in the middle, and Wraith's isolated at the far end.
Wraith's door is closed, as always. A plain black door with no decorations, no nameplates, nothing to suggest someone lives there.
That's because he doesn't. We use the room for storage.
But I push the door open anyway, checking inside with a quick wary glance.
Plague's grotesque warning echoes in my head.
Nope. Nothing's here but bins and boxes.
I close the door, wincing when it shuts louder than I intended it to. For a few moments, I stand perfectly still, listening. Trying not to fucking breathe. I half expect Wraith to appear at the end of the hall like the killer in a slasher movie. But it sounds like he isn't home.
Letting out a relieved breath, I head down the hall toward the entrance to his actual room. There's a discrete trapdoor in the ceiling at the far end of the hall, with a ladder that can be pulled down. It leads directly into Wraith's loft.
Found it by accident one night when I was new to the team, exploring the digs after one too many drinks. Thane had to split up the brawl that ensued when Wraith heard me picking the lock.
And I'm gonna do it again, too.
I approach it quietly, eyeing the almost invisible seam in the ceiling. If the omega is anywhere, she's up there. If I can just get a peek, confirm she's real and not some shared hallucination...
The sound of water rushing through the pipes in the wall makes me hesitate. Wraith doesn't take showers in the middle of the afternoon. Someone else is in his loft.
Yep. That's all the evidence I need.
Before I can even process what I'm doing, my hand's reaching into my pocket for my keys to pick the lock on the trapdoor.
"Don't."
Plague's voice cuts through the silence, stopping me cold. I turn to find him standing in the hallway, dripping wet with a towel wrapped around his waist. His long black hair is slicked back, water droplets tracing paths down his bare chest.
Fuck, that was fast. He's never that quick.
"Don't what?" I ask, aiming for innocence.
"You know exactly what." His pale blue eyes are hard as ice, his lip slightly curled. "You're planning to invade Wraith's space. One of the few boundaries Wraith has explicitly set. You need to mind your own business."
"I'm planning to find out if our pack's about to gain a member," I correct him, hearing the defensive edge in my voice. "It's just as much our business as it is his. This ain't a beta, bro."
"Unless he's protecting her," Plague says in a flat tone. "We don't know why he's taking care of an omega, but we do know he avoids them. It's much more likely he's trying to help somebody than anything else."
"We're dreaming about her. You really think this is a random omega he picked up off the streets?
" I say through my teeth. I take a step toward him, frustration bubbling over.
"Something's wrong, Plague. You know it.
I know it. We found evidence of an omega in the arena—an omega that matches our shared dreams. Wraith showed up shirtless, for fuck's sake.
Shirtless. When have you ever seen him without fifty shades of gray clothing? "
"That doesn't give you the right to—"
"And now he's hiding out up there," I continue, jabbing a finger toward the ceiling. "With someone. Someone he's keeping from us. From his pack. And he just went to a fucking omega clinic in broad daylight, Plague. Broad daylight. You know how much he hates going out."
Plague doesn't back down. Instead, he steps closer, water still dripping from his hair onto his shoulders. "And if he is hiding her, there's a reason."
"What possible reason could justify keeping this from us?"
"You saw the fire extinguisher. You saw the blood.
She knocked a notoriously fearsome alpha unconscious," Plague replies evenly, dropping his voice lower.
"An omega who's been resorting to hiding in maintenance tunnels like a wild animal is likely partially feral. It could take weeks to build trust."
"All the more reason for us to help! We're a pack, for fuck's sake."
"And maybe that's exactly why Wraith hasn't told us," Plague says, his expression softening slightly.
"Think about it. If she's running from someone, which is the only fucking reason an omega would hide like this, why would she trust a pack of strange alphas?
Do you realize what kind of position she must be in if she allowed an alpha as intense as Wraith to bring her to his loft after what can't have been more than a few days? "
That stops me. I hadn't considered it from that angle.
"Besides," Plague continues, "if there is an omega up there, imagine how she'd feel if you came bursting through the ceiling like the Kool-Aid man. How would that earn you any favor with her?"
The mental image almost makes me smirk, despite everything. Almost.
"So we just, what? Stand around with our thumbs up our asses while Wraith does his lone wolf routine again? What happened to confronting him tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," Plague says firmly. "When we can have a conversation like adults instead of you ambushing a potentially traumatized omega while she's in the shower."
Fuck. He has a point.
"Fine," I concede finally. "But I'm talking to him. As soon as he shows his face, or his eyes, or whatever, we're having a conversation."
"Talking is acceptable. Breaking and entering is not."
I roll my eyes. "Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir."
Plague regards me coolly. "Your military sarcasm doesn't work on me."
"Nothing works on you," I grumble. "You're like a fucking robot."
"And you're a bull in a china shop." He turns away, heading back toward his room. "Tomorrow. We wait until tomorrow."
I take a deep breath in and let it out slow. “Tomorrow. But that's it. After that, all bets are off.”
"Agreed." He pauses at his door, looking back at me with an expression I can't read at all. As fucking usual. "And try not to do anything impulsive before then."
"Me? Impulsive? Never."
The corner of his mouth quirks up in what might be the ghost of a smile. "For once in your life, Whiskey, just try."