Chapter 24 – IVY
Chapter
Twenty-Four
IVY
The entire surreal exchange plays through my mind on repeat in Wraith's absence, each moment amplified by the lingering effects of the suppressant shot and the early symptoms of my heat.
My body still tingles where his hard length pressed against my knee. Couldn't have missed that. The memory of just how massive he is in every way has been seared into my brain.
So is the memory of his mask slipping down just an inch or two on the right side. That brief, accidental glimpse. The panic in his eyes was undeniable. Absolute, bone-deep panic. He thought I was horrified. Thought he'd traumatized me.
But it wasn't that. I was shocked, yes. Surprised, definitely. What I saw in that split second before he frantically yanked his mask back into place was severe, staggering scarring.
I saw a flash of white that had to be teeth. There's nothing else it could've been. His cheek was torn and scarred in a permanent grin.
But how were his teeth so sharp?
I only saw a few, but they were daggerlike, pointed, like a predator’s teeth. It shouldn't even be possible for teeth to be shaped that way. Not without being modified. And if he hates himself so much, he wouldn't choose to make himself look more frightening.
Unless it wasn't a choice?
Shit. Maybe I was hallucinating.
I press the heels of my palms against my eyes until sparks dance behind my eyelids. The suppression shot could have fucked me up more than I thought. I’m feeling better now, but…
I drop my hands from my face, feeling my pulse finally slow to something approaching normal.
My skin still hums with awareness, with the memory of his hard body beneath mine, the heat of him seeping into my bones.
I curl tighter into his blankets, trying to recapture that feeling of being surrounded by him.
My body still feels the phantom warmth of his, the solid wall of his chest against my cheek, the gentle strength of his muscled arms cradling me close.
I miss it already.
Miss being held by him.
I can still feel the ghost of his touch, the careful way his hand covered my scarred shoulder, easing the pain there without asking questions, without demanding explanations. The gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, his woodsy scent enveloping me like a shield against the world.
I've never slept so deeply, so peacefully, as I did in his arms last night. That hasn't changed now that I've glimpsed part of the scars he’s hiding beneath the mask.
Nothing has changed.
I sent him for food partly because I really am starving—my stomach cramps painfully at the thought of pho, rich broth and noodles and herbs—but mostly because he needed distance.
A mission. Something to do other than spiral into self-loathing over something that wasn't his fault in what should be his sanctuary.
I still can't believe I asked for pho, of all things. As if I'm on a casual date and not hiding from the world in an alpha hockey player's pack house loft while I recover from a suppression shot that nearly knocked me out.
Like we're just two perfectly normal people deciding what to have for dinner.
But that's what makes it so precious, isn't it? This moment of normalcy. Of being treated like a person with desires and preferences rather than a problem to be solved or a possession to be claimed.
Could Wraith really be my scent match?
The question I've been avoiding bubbles back to the surface of my mind, impossible to ignore any longer. I certainly enjoy his scent, but for omegas, scent matches are a whisper. For alphas, scent matches are a roar. An instant, ancient recognition that overwhelms all rational thought.
I’ve never heard of an alpha having a scent match and not shouting it from the rooftops. And Wraith has never mentioned it. Never even hinted at it.
But I don't think he would tell me.
If that glimpse of his face is any indication of the full extent of his injuries, I can understand why he acts like I’m insane for wanting to be near him. I fucking hate it, but I understand. Why he might hide the truth of a scent match.
But he's wrong.
Catastrophically wrong.
I wrap my arms around myself, thinking. The brutal reaction my body had to the shot means I can't take the second dose. Not without risking an even worse reaction that might actually land me in a hospital, exactly where I can't afford to be.
Which means I'm going to have to go into heat.
Could I ask Wraith to help me through it?
The thought sends a hot flush through my body that has nothing to do with my messed up hormones.
It wouldn’t have to mean anything. It could just be two people handling a physical need. No strings attached.
Except that would be a lie.
And if I'm right—if we are matches—I need to make it clear that I want him because of who he is, not just because my heat is approaching or because some biological imperative is pushing us together.
That the match only confirms what I already feel, what I've felt since he held me through that first night.
Another thought occurs to me. One I hadn't considered before.
If Wraith is my scent match, what about the other alphas in the pack house?
I know almost nothing about alpha dynamics, but I know the core members of the Ghosts—Wraith, Thane, Whiskey, and Plague—are more than just teammates. They're a bonded pack. And if an omega matches with one pack member, she matches with them all.
Are Thane, Plague, and Whiskey my matches too? Would I feel the same pull toward them that I feel toward Wraith? The same inexplicable trust, the same sense of rightness? Are they bonded on a chemical level that would extend to me?
I haven't even met them. They might be typical alphas. Might not be safe and kind and good like Wraith.
My burner phone feels heavy in my hand as I grab it from my bag. The battery is low, but it should last long enough. I plug it into the wall outlet to charge and hesitate for just a moment, thumb hovering over the screen, before pulling up a browser and running a search on the Ghosts.
Thane first.
The search results load instantly. Photos, articles, stats. Thane's face fills my screen. Intense dark eyes beneath shaggy dark hair that nearly brushes his broad shoulders, tanned skin, a face that looks carved from granite. Team captain and starting goalie. Son of the NHL Commissioner.
I scroll down, skimming his career highlights. A headline catches my eye. Belmont Brothers: NHL's Toughest Family Dynamic.
Brothers?
I tap the link. The photo shows two teenagers on a large backyard rink. One is unmistakably Thane, but younger, lankier.
And beside him...
Even as a teenager, Wraith towers over Thane, bigger than most fully grown alphas. His hands are shoved in the front pocket of his black sweatshirt and his head is turned away slightly from the camera instead of making eye contact with it. He’s wearing a black gaiter over his lower face as usual.
"Thane Belmont with foster brother who would later become known only as 'Wraith' in the NHL."
Fuck. Whatever happened to Wraith must have happened when he was just a kid. I close the article, swallowing past the lump in my throat.
I search for Whiskey next. This one brings up colorful headlines that are a welcome distraction from the clenching in my chest.
Marine Turned Hockey Star Dominates the Ice.
New Fan Favorite Brings Texas-Sized Personality to Michigan.
Record Set for Penalty Minutes While Maintaining Top Scoring Position.
The photos show a broad, burly alpha who appears to be in his mid-twenties, built like a grizzly bear with messy chestnut hair and warm honey-brown eyes.
He's smiling in every shot, a cocky grin that borders on arrogant.
Okay… more than borders on arrogant. But there's something genuinely warm in his eyes that makes him seem more playful than anything else.
I scroll further to find a series of tweets from fans describing encounters with him.
Signing autographs for hours after games, picking up tabs for veterans at restaurants, carrying an elderly woman's groceries six blocks to her apartment during a blizzard. Shirtless, too, his skin flushed pink from the cold because he’d given her his coat and his jersey.
Plague is next. Fewer personal articles, more stats and analysis of his aggressive yet controlled playing style.
The photos show a strikingly handsome man with long black hair pulled back into a low ponytail, pale blue eyes, and bronze skin.
In almost every public photo, he's wearing a black surgical mask, but not all of them.
There isn’t much on Plague at all. He has basically no presence online. But several articles mention his intelligence. Fluent in Arabic, English, French, and Russian. Partial completion of medical school prior to becoming a hockey star.
I keep scrolling.
There is so much fanart of Plague and Whiskey.
Plague and Whiskey making out in the locker room. Whiskey pinning Plague against the boards surrounding the rink. A few where it's the other way around, too. Entire Pinterest boards full of photo compilations, collages, and drawings of them in every position imaginable that make my face heat up.
Are the fans just shipping them? Or are they actually together? It would make the situation slightly less nerve-racking if I'm bonded to this entire pack and they're not all fixated on me at the same time.
And it's admittedly kind of hot.
I scroll through a few more photos of the Ghosts, noting the dynamics between them in team shots. The way they position themselves around each other, the subtle signs of their bond. Wraith is on the outside for the most part, although they seem to be making an effort to include him.
None of these alphas give me the instant knot of dread in my stomach that Wade did from the first moment, even though I ignored it back then.
I set my phone aside. I'm getting ahead of myself.
Way ahead.
Before I do anything else, I need to talk to Wraith when he comes back.