Chapter 23 – WRAITH
Chapter
Twenty-Three
WRAITH
Time crystallizes into this single perfect moment.
The omega sleeps against my chest, her breathing deep and even. Her body, so slight compared to mine, fits against me like she was made to be there. One of her hands rests over my heart, her fingers occasionally twitching in sleep.
I don't dare move.
Don't dare breathe too deeply.
Don't dare shatter this impossible thing.
Trust.
That's what this is.
A wounded omega has chosen to sleep in the arms of an alpha.
Not just any alpha, but me.
A scarred, mute, terrifying feral monster.
Her wild honeysuckle scent rises through the cologne she frantically sprayed around the room.
I know what she was doing. The flush on her cheeks.
The quickened pulse at her throat. The unmistakable honeyed musk of her arousal that no amount of cologne could fully mask from an alpha's sharpened senses.
Especially not mine.
I'm not stupid. I know what happened. Know she was touching herself in my bed, seeking relief from the beginnings of her heat.
But I would never embarrass her by making it obvious I know. She matters more than my alpha instincts that growl mine, mine, mine with every breath I take.
I carefully adjust the blanket around her shoulders with my free hand. The other remains pressed over the burn scar where a mark used to be, right by the juncture of her neck and shoulder. I can sense it like poison in her skin.
He marked her.
And she burned it off.
What kind of hell did she escape to prefer that to wearing his claim? The thought makes dark, seething violence rise inside me.
A mating mark is sacred.
The deepest form of connection possible.
I close my eyes, forcing the rage back down where it belongs. My fingers absently trace the raised edge of the scar beneath her shirt.
The story of her survival.
Her refusal to remain owned.
I understand scars better than most.
Understand their permanence.
Signs someone tried to destroy us but failed.
The shadows lengthen across the floor as evening approaches. How long have we been like this? Three hours? Four? Time loses meaning when I'm perfectly still, every sense attuned to her breathing, her heartbeat, the small movements she makes in sleep.
Best four hours of my life.
Her scent shifts slightly, the medicine working through her system.
The cold sweat of fever gives way to something cleaner, healthier.
The mark on her shoulder still troubles her though.
Her face occasionally tightens with pain, and when it does, I gently increase the pressure of my palm against it.
Each time, she relaxes again.
My heart settles into a steady, quiet rhythm as the omega sleeps against me. Every breath she takes warms a spot on my chest through the thin fabric of my tank. Her weight is nothing—I could carry her for miles without noticing—but right now, she feels like an anchor holding me in place.
Keeping me from drifting away.
Drifting into the darkness that's always waiting.
I don't deserve this moment.
Don't deserve her trust.
But I'll take it anyway.
Store it away to remember forever.
A memory to return to when I'm alone again.
The thought brings a heaviness to my chest, but I push it away. Focus instead on the delicate curve of her cheek. The fan of her lashes against her skin. The soft parting of her lips as she breathes.
She moves against me again, making a small sound in her sleep. Her face nuzzles closer to my neck, seeking warmth.
I have never known such peace.
Then her nose brushes against the edge of my mask, and I go still. Even in sleep, she's restless. She shifts again, pressing closer, her face turning from the crook of my neck and up toward mine.
And then it happens.
Her nose catches the edge of my mask.
Pushes it down my cheek.
Cold air hits scarred skin.
My hand is trapped beneath her.
Can't reach up to fix it.
Can't adjust the mask without disturbing her.
Panic flares hot.
Vision grays and narrows to pinpricks.
My free hand that isn't covering the scar on her shoulder hovers at her side where her body presses my arm against the back of the couch. I'm caught between the desperate need to cover myself and the fear of waking her. Of ruining this brief peace she's found in my arms.
Breath catches in my throat.
My jaw locks tight.
Every muscle in my body coils.
Ancient responses to danger.
Responses hardwired into my alpha DNA.
But there's nowhere to run or hide.
Not when the monster is your own face.
Stay still.
Don't wake her.
She needs rest.
The mantra repeats in my head, forcing my hand to lower. Forcing my breathing to steady. The mask isn't down much. Just enough to show part of the ruin of my right cheek.
Or what used to be my right cheek.
Maybe she won't notice.
Maybe she'll stay asleep.
Maybe—
Her eyelashes flutter.
No.
Fuck—
My heart slams against my ribs so hard it hurts.
Blood roars in my ears.
But I can't move.
Can't breathe.
Can't do anything but watch, frozen, as those ocean eyes slowly open. Her gaze is unfocused at first, clouded with sleep and medication. Then it sharpens as her eyes find my face.
As they flick down to where my mask has slipped.
As her pupils blow wide.
Everything grinds to a halt.
The sound of her sharp inhale slices through me like a blade. It's faint, barely audible, but to me it's deafening. A sound I've heard a thousand times before. The involuntary intake of breath when someone sees what's beneath my mask.
The prelude to screaming.
The instinctive fear response that says wrong, wrong, wrong.
She sits up, weight moving off my trapped arm. The second it's free, I jerk my hand up to my face, yanking the mask back into place with such force I hear a seam rip.
Too late.
She knows.
My hands fly between us, signing rapidly, desperately.
S-O-R-R-Y.
S-O-R-R-Y.
S-O-R-R-Y.
The same word over and over, my fingers shaking so badly I can barely form the letters. She sits up straighter, moving toward my knees. Creating distance between herself and the monster.
My signs grow more forceful, more jagged. Don't even know what I'm saying anymore. Can't keep my hands steady. Can't slow down enough to make sure she understands. Panic builds like a towering wave, threatening to crush and drown me. My chest heaves with labored breaths that burn my damaged throat.
She's seen—
"Are you okay?" she asks. Her voice is soft. Doesn't sound terrified or repulsed. Sounds worried, if anything.
Why the fuck is she worried about me?
Why doesn’t she hate me?
I am a living fucking nightmare.
I shake my head hard, the motion making the torn mask shift again. I grab it with both hands now, pressing it harder against my ravaged skin.
Making sure there are no gaps.
No chance of her seeing more.
My breathing comes in short, harsh bursts, not enough oxygen reaching my lungs. The panic builds higher, faster. Crushing my chest. Squeezing my throat.
I need to move.
Need to get away before she sees more.
The mask is fucking ripped.
Yanked it back on too fast.
But my body won't cooperate. I'm still frozen, trapped in a spiral of panic that constricts like an iron maiden around my entire fucking torso with each passing second. Nails driving into me—
She plants her hands on my chest. Then up to my shoulders, squeezing, saying something I can't hear over the ringing in my ears.
But it all comes to a screeching halt.
The nails stop.
The crushing and clamping stops.
She leans in closer and slips her arms beneath mine, wrapping them around me, encircling my massive frame as much as she can. Her face comes to rest against my neck, her heart pounding against mine.
She's… holding me.
Why?
"Is this okay?" she whispers, her voice vibrating against my sternum.
Can't move.
Don't dare to touch her back. Don't dare to complete the embrace. Not trusting myself or this moment that can't possibly be real.
But she doesn't let go.
Her arms tighten slightly, a silent reassurance. Her wild honeysuckle scent, sweetened and spiced from her lingering heat, fills my lungs and drives back the raging panic.
Grounding me to this impossible moment.
This impossible touch.
My heart still hammers against my ribs, but the rhythm begins to slow. My breathing evens out, each breath a little deeper, a little steadier than the last. Fucking lightheaded still, but the black spots recede from my vision, the world expanding back to its normal dimensions.
She's still here.
Still not running.
With agonizing slowness, I lower my arms. Let them settle around her small frame. Ready to pull away at the first sign of discomfort. The first hint that she regrets this decision and is afraid of me now.
But no signs come.
"I'm sorry about your mask," she murmurs. Hesitantly. As if she isn't sure she should say anything.
She's apologizing.
To me.
Why?
For getting a glimpse of what she was never meant to see?
I pull back just enough to sign, hands still unsteady but slower now. More deliberate.
N-O-T… Y-O-U-R… F-A-U-L-T.
And then, because I need to know, because I can't understand, my hands form the question that's burning through me even as I try to focus on my breathing.
W-H-Y… N-O-T… S-C-A-R-E-D?
She reads my signs, understanding dawning in those ocean eyes. And then she does something that stops my heart entirely.
She smiles at me.
A real smile.
Not forced.
"No, Wraith. I'm not afraid of you," she says gently, holding my gaze with a steadiness that makes my pulse stutter. "I was just surprised. Not scared."
Don't understand.
Can't fathom this reaction.
I search her face for any sign of deception. Any hint that she's forcing herself to remain calm. That she's fighting the natural instinct to flee from the horror that is my face, even if she can't have seen much.
But there's nothing.
No terror in her scent. No trembling. No flinching when she looks at me. Just steady acceptance that I don't know how to process.
My hands lift, signing slowly, jerkily.
Y-O-U… S-A-W.