Chapter 22 – IVY
Chapter
Twenty-Two
IVY
The water has cooled around me, no longer the soothing warmth that eased my aching muscles. I must have dozed off for a bit, my fever-addled brain finally finding some peace in the quiet bathroom. For how long, I'm not sure. Long enough that my fingertips have wrinkled like prunes.
Wraith will probably be back soon. The thought makes my stomach flutter in a way that has nothing to do with my illness.
I pull the drain plug and stand up, water cascading down my body as I reach for a towel.
The bathroom is modestly stocked, like everything else in this sparse loft.
Just the essentials. One oversized black towel hangs on the rack.
I dry myself off with it and stare at my pile of clothes on the floor.
They're still damp from sweat, and the thought of pulling them back on now that I'm finally thoroughly clean makes me cringe.
That's when I notice the black bathrobe hanging on the back of the door. It's massive—clearly Wraith's—and looks absurdly clean and soft.
He did give me his sweatshirt earlier. This is probably fine too.
The terrycloth fabric feels heavenly against my still-sensitive skin as I wrap it around me.
It's comically large, the sleeves hanging well past my fingertips.
I have to roll them up several times just to free my hands.
The bottom hem pools around my feet, and I gather it up to avoid tripping as I pad back into the main room like a terrycloth queen.
The loft is quiet, still empty.
No sign of Wraith's return yet.
I shuffle back to the bed, practically swimming in fabric, and sink into the mattress with a grateful sigh. The nest of blankets Wraith built for me earlier is still there, and I burrow into it, wrapping myself in layers of his scent.
My body feels strange. Not just the lingering effects of fever, either. A restlessness beneath my skin, a hollow ache low in my belly. The early signs of heat, but still manageable. I probably still have some time before it really hits.
The bath salts have helped, but not enough. The ache intensifies, pulsing between my thighs, demanding attention. I press my legs together, trying to ignore it, but that only makes it worse.
So does the fact that I'm alone and surrounded by alpha scent.
Just to take the edge off, I tell myself. To make it easier to function until the suppressants arrive. It's practical, nothing more.
My hand slides beneath the robe, brushing against my heated pussy. I'm already wet, slick coating my fingers from the first tentative touch. I bite my lip, stifling a moan as I circle my clit, sending sizzling sparks up my spine.
Closing my eyes, I let myself go, let my mind wander.
It goes straight to Wraith.
His massive frame looming over me, those intense blue eyes holding mine as his rough hands replace my own. I imagine his solid weight pressing me into the mattress, the scars snaking down his muscled chest brushing against my breasts, kissing down my throat.
In my fantasy, the mask is gone. I have no idea what lies beneath it other than that he has scars, so my mind won't conjure up anything specific other than his mouth on mine, hot and demanding. Hungry kisses that leave me panting, kisses that take and take and take.
My fingers move faster, mimicking what I imagine his would do. Teasing, exploring, claiming.
"Please," I whisper to the empty room, to the phantom alpha my mind has conjured.
I slip two fingers inside myself, gasping at the intrusion, at how empty it feels compared to what I really want. What I need. My thumb continues to circle my clit as my fingers thrust, curling to find that spot that makes my toes curl.
In my mind, it's Wraith above me, his powerful body caging mine, protecting even as he claims me.
Those rough hands gripping my hips, positioning me just so.
The fantasy is so vivid I can almost feel the weight of him, his wild scent surrounding me as he growls low in his chest. A sound of pure alpha instinct as he fills me, stretches me, claims me.
My back arches off the bed, muscles tensing again as I approach the edge. My free hand clamps over my mouth, stifling the sounds I can't control. The fantasy shifts, deepens—Wraith's hands in my hair, his body shuddering against mine, his knot swelling and locking us together.
The orgasm crashes through me, my body writhing with ecstasy so intense I go rigid and nearly black out. A high-pitched whimper escapes past my fingers as my inner walls clench around my fingers, my body desperately seeking a fullness that isn't there.
For a moment, I just lie there panting, aftershocks rippling through me, my hand still crushed between my legs. Shame creeps in as reality returns, as I remember where I am, whose bed I'm in.
What the hell is wrong with me?
A creak and the sound of a door shutting from somewhere below the loft pulls me from my self-recrimination, ice flooding my veins.
There's someone in the pack house.
Someone downstairs.
I freeze, barely breathing, straining to hear over the pounding of my heart. A low male voice, and definitely not Wraith. Not only is he mute, he wouldn't sound like a frat bro soldier if he could speak.
Panic bubbles up my throat, making me nauseous all over again. Is someone coming up here? Does the pack house have other alphas returning from practice? Did Wraith tell them about me after all?
My feet tangle in the robe as I scramble out of bed, nearly sending me face-first into the floor. I manage to catch myself, moving as silently as I can toward the trapdoor in the floor that Wraith had blocked earlier with the dresser.
I press my ear against the floor beside the dresser's legs, listening intently. Footsteps. Someone moving around down there, but they don't seem to be approaching the hatch.
A light tapping sound from behind me makes me jump out of my fucking skin. I whirl around with an instinctive growl, grabbing the bedside lamp and brandishing it like a sword in front of me.
Wraith's blue eyes meet mine through the window, his brow furrowing slightly at the sight of me holding the lamp like I'm about to bash his skull in if he enters. His gaze drops to the gaping neckline of the robe where it's fallen open in my haste, then jerks back up as if burned.
I feel my face flush beet red and I clutch the robe closed with my free hand, setting down the lamp with the other.
Wraith's hands move in the familiar gestures I've come to recognize as asking permission, asking if he can come in.
"Just a minute," I mouth to him, mortification turning my insides to liquid. He just caught me in his bathrobe, flushed and disheveled from getting myself off while thinking about him.
He won't know that part, at least.
Right?
Fuck. He's an alpha. He'll catch my scent as soon as he comes in.
I scramble to grab my clothes from the bathroom, ducking inside to change as quickly as my still-shaky limbs allow. The clothes from my bag feel stiff and uncomfortable against my sensitized skin, but there's no way I'm facing him again in nothing but his robe.
I stuff the bathrobe in a laundry basket, cover it with towels, and just for good measure, I spray his cologne all over it too. Hopefully that'll cover the scent from what I just did to myself in his bed. It smells good. Really good, like dusky woods and rum.
My inner omega starts purring all over again.
Actually, you know what? Better spray it all over the room, too. Even though he's watching me like I've grown two heads, those intense yet curious—and slightly wary—blue eyes tracking my every movement.
When I'm satisfied the scent of his cologne will cover my scent enough that I won't be thoroughly humiliated, I put his cologne back on the shelf on the off chance he couldn't see that and look back to the window.
"You can come in," I say, trying to keep my voice down. It's still shaking.
Wraith slides the window open and climbs in. For someone so large, he moves with incredible control, never wasting a motion. He straightens to his full height, towering over me. As his gaze meets mine, his pupils suddenly blow wide, the black nearly swallowing the blue.
A flash of heat travels up my spine. Did he catch my scent? Can he tell what I was just doing in his bed? But his expression remains neutral, and he doesn't sign anything about it. Maybe he's just being polite. Or maybe the cologne I sprayed everywhere actually worked.
Then he holds up a paper bag that looks comically small in his huge hands.
The suppressants. Thank god.
"Thank you," I say, relief making my voice crack. I take the bag gratefully, noticing how Wraith's shoulders seem unusually tense. There's a heaviness to him that wasn't there when he left. His blue eyes, normally so intense, almost look... pained. Something happened while he was out.
"Did everything go okay at the clinic?" I ask, studying his expression above the mask.
He nods, a quick, dismissive gesture, but his eyes flick away from mine too fast. His hand comes up to check the position of his mask, making sure it's secure. A nervous habit that seems almost subconscious.
"Are you sure?" I press gently.
His massive shoulders rise and fall in what's clearly meant to be a casual shrug, but there's nothing casual about the tension radiating from him. He signs F-I-N-E with jerky movements that contradict the word itself.
I don't believe him for a second. Something happened out there. Something that shook him. I can see it in the tightness around his eyes, the controlled stillness of his body. Like he's holding himself together through sheer force of will.
My heart drops into my stomach. What if they made him verify his identity?
It's a routine I have to go through every time, but usually, the pharmacists I deal with make it clear they're already not happy about handing out suppressants to an omega.
I just assumed they would give an important alpha whatever he asked for, but what if they didn't?