Chapter 27 – IVY
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
IVY
I've been channel surfing for the past hour, trying to find something—anything—to distract myself while waiting for Wraith to return with our food. Some reality show about an alphahole with a pack of twelve omegas plays on the screen, but I'm barely paying attention.
It feels like a cold war, and I’m the nuclear secret.
I shift on the couch, pulling Wraith’s blanket tighter around my shoulders. The first suppressant shot is still working, but that telltale uncomfortable warmth is still building under my skin.
A soft thump from somewhere below the loft catches my attention. I mute the TV, straining to hear. For a moment, there's nothing but silence, and I wonder if I imagined it.
Then another sound.
This one more distinct.
A metallic scraping, like someone is picking at the floor from the other side.
My heart rate kicks up a notch. I slide off the couch, padding silently across the floor toward the trapdoor Wraith had blocked with a heavy dresser before leaving. The dresser hasn't moved, but as I watch, the hatch beneath it jiggles slightly.
Click.
The sound of a lock disengaging echoes through the quiet loft. The hatch pushes upward, hitting the bottom of the dresser with a dull thud.
"Shit," a deep voice growls from below.
Not Wraith.
Wraith can't fucking talk.
Adrenaline dumps into my system, washing away any lingering effects of the fever.
I scan the room frantically for something—anything—I can use to defend myself.
My eyes land on a black hockey stick propped against the wall near Wraith's bed.
I lunge for it and grab the heavy glass bottle of cologne I'd sprayed around the loft earlier, too. A decent projectile.
Below the loft, I hear muffled voices arguing.
"—told you this was a bad idea—"
"—just want to talk to her—"
"—Wraith will fucking kill us—"
The voices grow louder, more heated. There's a scuffling sound, like bodies shoving against each other, and then the hatch pushes upward again, harder this time. The dresser slides an inch across the floor, heavy enough to dig into the hardwood.
I position myself to the side of the hatch, hockey stick raised, ready to swing at whoever comes through. My hands are steady despite the fear pumping through me. This isn't the first time I've had to defend myself against an alpha, not even this week, and I'm sure it won't be the fucking last.
The hatch flies open and a head pops up through the opening. In the dim light, I make out tousled chestnut hair and honey-colored eyes with pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the iris.
Whiskey.
He stares at me, mouth opening to speak. "We're your scent—"
I swing the hockey stick with every ounce of strength I possess, connecting solidly with the side of his head and cutting him off. The hatch clatters shut as he hits the floor hard enough to shake the loft. I drop to my knees beside the hatch, hockey stick still clutched in my hands.
I don't have time to process what he just said because the voices below have escalated into what sounds like a full-blown fight. Grunts and thuds echo up through the opening, punctuated by shouting.
"—told you to wait—"
"—she fucking hit me—"
"—deserved it—"
The hatch clatters open again. I scramble back, raising the hockey stick, but this time, a different face appears. This alpha has long black hair and pale blue eyes that widen slightly when they lock with mine. Pretty. Almost too pretty to be an alpha.
Definitely Plague.
"I apologize," he starts.
I spray him in the eyes with cologne before he can finish.
The alpha recoils with a snarling hiss, eyes squeezing shut as he drops back through the hatch. More chaos erupts below.
"Not another one!" Whiskey yells. "A fuckin' she-Wraith!"
I remain crouched by the dresser, hockey stick in one hand, cologne in the other, ready to take on whoever comes through next. But the hatch stays closed, though I can still hear them arguing below.
A soft scraping sound from behind me makes me whirl around, heart in my throat.
The window slides open, and Wraith's massive form slips through with surprising grace for someone his size.
He's carrying a takeout bag that fills the loft with the rich, savory scent of pho, blue eyes flicking from the hatch to me to the hatch again.
Did he tell them about me? I don’t think he would, but before I can ask, in two long strides, he crosses to the coffee table and sets down the bag of food. Then, without a word to me, he vanishes back through the window like a shadow.
I stare after him for a few heartbeats, momentarily stunned by his abrupt departure. Then I hear the sound of shattering glass from somewhere below, followed by a blood-curdling yell from Whiskey.
Oh god.
My body moves on autopilot, muscle memory from months of planning escape routes kicking in before my brain can even process what's happening.
Still carrying the hockey stick as a makeshift weapon, I lunge for my backpack.
My fingers fumble with the zipper, yanking it open to grab my essentials—burner phone, wallet with my emergency cash, the small switchblade I keep for protection.
I stuff them into my pockets, heart hammering against my ribs.
More crashes from below. The sound of furniture splintering. Deep alpha growls and snarls that vibrate through the floor beneath my feet. Wraith's among them—I recognize that particular rumble now, lower and more guttural than the others.
They're fighting. All of them.
Because of me.
I jam my feet into my shoes without bothering to untie the laces, then grab one of Wraith's black coats from the rack by the window.
It's massive on me, even more like a dress hanging off my slight frame than his sweatshirt, but it's warm and carries his scent.
I wrap it around myself, inhaling that comforting midnight forest smell one last time.
God, I hope it's not the last time.
Another crash from below, followed by what sounds like a body hitting a wall hard enough to crack plaster. Someone—not Wraith—roars in pain or rage or both.
I need to get out.
Now.
The window Wraith just left through is still partially open. I slide it up the rest of the way, cool night air rushing in to greet me. The roof and the fire escape platform sit just outside, metal grating sturdy beneath my feet as I climb through.
The night air is crisp against my face, carrying the scent of impending rain. I take a deep breath, steadying myself as I look down. The fire escape zigzags down the side of the building, each platform connected by a short ladder. It's a straight shot to the ground, maybe four stories total.
I've climbed worse things.
My hands grip the cold metal railing as I start my descent, moving as quickly and quietly as I can.
The sounds of the fight grow louder as I pass the third-story windows.
A flash of movement through a broken window—the same one Wraith must have gone through—catches my eye, and I pause, peering through the shattered glass.
What I see makes my blood run cold.
The living room inside is a war zone. A coffee table lies shattered in the center of the room. A bookshelf has been toppled, its contents scattered across the hardwood floor. And in the middle of it all, four massive alphas locked in combat.
Blood trickles from the scar over Wraith's eye as he faces off against the other three—Thane, Whiskey, and Plague—who have formed a loose semicircle around him.
They're not fighting him all at once. There seems to be some unspoken rule to their combat, some line they won't cross despite the violence. One-on-one, taking turns. Like they're trying to subdue him, not hurt him.
Or they're just trying to survive.
As I watch, Whiskey lunges forward, trying to grapple Wraith around the waist. Wraith sidesteps with surprising agility for someone his size, using Whiskey's momentum to send him crashing into a wall.
"For fuck's sake!" Whiskey yells, already pushing himself away from the wall. "We just want to talk to her! You can't keep her from us!"
Wraith's response is a low, threatening snarl that raises the hair on the back of my neck even through the glass.
"This is completely unnecessary," Plague says, his voice calmer than the others despite the situation. "We can resolve this without destroying the entire pack house."
Wraith's response is to lunge at Plague. Plague ducks and Wraith's fist goes clear through the wall right where Plague's head just was.
I should keep going. Get as far away from here as possible. Text Wraith when I'm safe, figure out where I should go from there. But as I watch the four of them circling each other like wolves, something shifts inside me. A realization that hits with startling clarity.
They're fighting over me.
Not just Wraith protecting me, but all of them wanting to... what? Claim me? Meet me? The words Whiskey started to say before I clocked him with the hockey stick echo in my mind.
They're my scent matches.
The whole pack.
I look down at the ground, still two stories below. Freedom. Anonymity. Everything I've wanted for these past months.
Then I look back through the broken window at the chaos unfolding inside. At Wraith, fighting to protect me from his own pack. From his family.
Maybe he told them about me. Maybe he didn’t.
But I can’t just leave him behind. Not just because my omega instincts that have inexplicably wrapped themselves around him are begging me to intervene, either.
I’m genuinely attached to this alpha in a way that goes beyond whatever biological draw exists.
"Fuck," I mutter, already knowing what I'm going to do even though another part of me just wants to run like hell.
Here goes nothing.
I take a deep breath, steel myself, and drop through the window into the chaos of the pack house living room. An airborne glass lamp nearly takes me out the moment my feet hit the carpet. It shatters on the wall inches from my head.