Chapter 33 – WHISKEY
Chapter
Thirty-Three
WHISKEY
Eggs are supposed to be the easiest fucking thing to cook. Crack 'em, scramble 'em, don't burn 'em.
Simple.
So why the fuck am I staring at a pan of what looks like yellow rubber with black edges?
“Shit,” I mutter, scraping the spatula through the mess. The eggs stick to the bottom of the pan like they've signed a blood oath to never leave. I crank the heat higher, thinking maybe that'll loosen them up.
Smoke immediately billows from the pan.
"Motherfucker!" I lunge for the heat dial, cranking it back down as the smoke detector starts its high-pitched screech. I grab a dish towel and wave it frantically at the ceiling, like I'm surrendering to the kitchen gods who clearly have it out for me this morning.
The smoke detector finally shuts up, but the eggs are beyond salvation. I dump the blackened mess into the trash and grab another carton from the fridge. Our fourth this morning. At this rate, we'll single-handedly cause an egg shortage.
But I'm determined to get this right. The pack needs to eat.
Our growing pack.
Last night's events replay in my head as I crack more eggs into a bowl.
The omega—our omega—upstairs with Wraith.
The sounds they made. The honeysuckle scent that still lingers in the air, fainter now but unmistakable.
My failed attempt to talk to Plague, which ended with him looking at me like I'd suggested we rob a bank together.
I'm not even sure what I was trying to do there. The omega's heat scent must have scrambled my brain worse than these eggs.
Speaking of which…
I pour the new batch into a fresh pan, keeping the heat lower this time. Maybe that's the trick.
"What the hell are you doing to those poor eggs?"
I don't need to turn around to know it's Plague. That crisp, judgmental tone could only belong to one person.
"Making breakfast," I grunt, not looking up from my culinary disaster-in-progress. "What does it look like?"
"It looks like you're conducting a science experiment on how quickly protein can be transformed into carbon.
" He moves closer, his scent—clean and sharp, like fresh snow—hitting me as he approaches.
He's freshly showered, his long black hair pulled back in a perfect low ponytail, wearing a black turtleneck that clings to his lean frame.
After last night's weird conversation, I'm not sure how to act around him. So I default to what I know best.
Being a smartass.
"Well, if you think you can do better, pretty boy, be my guest." I step aside with a mock bow, gesturing to the stove with my spatula.
Plague eyes the smoking pan with distaste. "I could hardly do worse."
"Then put your money where your mouth is."
He sighs that long-suffering sigh that makes me want to either punch him or... something else I'm not thinking about right now. Shit, my wires are crossed as fuck. Without another word, he takes the spatula from my hand, his fingers brushing against mine for just a second too long.
I step back, crossing my arms and leaning against the counter to watch him work. Plague dumps my latest egg attempt into the trash and washes the pan, muttering under his breath the entire time.
"You know," I say, watching him crack eggs perfectly into a bowl, "for someone who acts like he's above basic human needs, you sure know your way around a kitchen."
"I lived alone for years before joining this team," he replies without looking up. "Unlike some people, I don't consider takeout a food group."
"Sushi's got all the food groups you could ever need."
He whisks the eggs with a little milk and what looks like... are those fresh herbs? Where the fuck did he find those in our bachelor wasteland of a kitchen?
"So," I say, because apparently I can't keep my mouth shut even when it's in my best interest, "about last night—"
"We're not discussing that." His tone leaves no room for argument as he pours the eggs into the heated pan.
"Which part? The omega? The fight? Or the part where you practically threw me out of your room?"
His shoulders tense slightly, the only indication that my words hit a nerve. "Any of it."
"We can't just pretend none of it happened."
"Watch me." He stirs the eggs like it's the easiest thing in the world to keep them from sticking to the pan. Unlike my scorched attempts, his are turning fluffy and golden and perfect.
I'm about to push further—because that's what I do, I push until something breaks—when the kitchen door swings open.
And of all people, it's Wraith.
Our seven-foot-plus teammate fills the doorway, his massive frame somehow looking less threatening than usual. His choppy dark hair is tousled like he fucked from morning to night. But that isn't all that's different.
He looks... relaxed.
As relaxed as Wraith ever looks, anyway.
And he's absolutely covered in honeysuckle scent.
The omega's smell clings to him like a second skin, so strong it's like she's in the room with us. My nostrils flare involuntarily, and I catch Plague's hands pausing for just a fraction of a second over the eggs he's been preparing like a goddamn robot.
It's all I can do to stay put and not smell him like a dog, just to get a better whiff of that sweet honeysuckle. Pretty sure he'd put me all the way through the wall this time, but it would be so fucking worth it.
"Morning, big guy," I say, keeping my voice casual despite the way my inner alpha is suddenly on high alert. "Sleep well?"
Wraith's blue eyes narrow slightly at my tone, but he gives a short nod before moving toward the cupboard. He pulls it open and starts rummaging through the shelves with purpose.
The kitchen falls into awkward silence. Plague focuses on the eggs like he's performing brain surgery, and I'm stuck between wanting to ask Wraith a million questions and not wanting to get my head literally ripped off.
The memory of our brawl last night is still fresh.
The living room looks like a tornado hit it despite our best efforts to clean it up, and Thane's outside talking to the junk removal guys right now.
"So," I say, suddenly wanting to fill the silence, "the omega—"
Wraith's head snaps toward me, a low growl rumbling from his chest. His blue eyes flash with warning.
"—seems nice," I finish lamely.
The growl subsides, but Wraith's gaze remains fixed on me for a beat longer than comfortable before he turns back to his task.
He grabs a pan from the cabinet and sets it on the stove next to Plague's perfect eggs before setting a box of butter on the counter.
Well, technically, he slammed it on the counter, but for Wraith, it wasn't a slam.
"Are you... cooking?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice. I've never seen this feral alpha cook in my life, and he's going straight for the hard shit right away.
Wraith ignores me, unwrapping an entire stick of butter and dropping it into the pan before cranking the heat to high. Within seconds, the butter starts smoking.
Plague and I exchange a glance. For once, we're in perfect agreement. Wraith has no fucking clue what he's doing.
"Maybe turn the heat down a bit, bro," I suggest cautiously.
Wraith shoots me another look but does adjust the dial slightly. He grabs a loaf of bread and drops two slices into the smoking butter. The sizzle is immediate and aggressive.
"Should we help him?" I mutter to Plague, keeping my voice low.
"You mean should I help him," Plague corrects. "We've already established you're useless in the kitchen."
"Harsh but fair."
With a put-upon sigh, Plague slides his perfectly cooked eggs to a cooler part of the stove and moves to Wraith's side. "May I?" he asks, gesturing to the smoking pan.
Wraith hesitates, then steps back with a stiff nod, allowing Plague to take over. There's something almost touching about the way our silent teammate watches Plague rescue his burnt toast attempt, like a giant, scarred puppy learning a new trick.
A wolf puppy, to be specific.
"You want to make French toast?" Plague asks, somehow interpreting Wraith's intentions from the disaster in progress. Wraith nods, and Plague starts giving quiet instructions, showing him how to properly prepare the egg mixture and soak the bread.
I watch them work together, struck by the strangeness of the scene. Plague, always aloof and particular, patiently guiding Wraith through the basics of breakfast preparation. Wraith, normally solitary and withdrawn, accepting help without bristling.
All because of her.
The omega upstairs.
The kitchen door swings open again, and Thane walks in, looking exhausted but slightly less murderous than last night. He's wearing a faded Ghosts t-shirt and jeans, his dark hair swept back from his face.
"Junk guys are loading up the last of the destroyed furniture," he announces, then stops short at the sight of Wraith and Plague cooking together. "What the hell is happening here?"
"Breakfast," I reply with a shrug. "Or at least, Plague's version of it. Mine was more of a cremation."
Thane's eyes fix on Wraith, who has gone over to the blender where he's adding protein powder to a mixture of fruits and yogurt. "Wraith. We need to talk."
Wraith doesn't look up from his task, but his shoulders tense slightly.
"About Valek," Thane clarifies. "He's arriving in—" he checks his watch, "—two hours. We need to figure out how to handle this situation."
Wraith still doesn't respond, focused intently on measuring protein powder.
"Valek already suspects something," Thane continues, his voice dropping lower. "If he catches her scent—"
Wraith's head snaps up, a warning growl building in his chest. The feral sound raises the hair on my arms.
"I'm not saying she has to leave," Thane adds quickly, hands raised in a placating gesture. "Of course not. Just that we need a plan to keep her safe and out of sight. We don't know this alpha, and you've already beaten the shit out of each other."
Wraith's growl subsides, but his eyes remain locked on Thane, challenging. His hands move in a series of signs that I can't follow.
"I know she's your priority," Thane translates, clearly understanding Wraith's version of sign language way better than I do even though it's his own version and fucking impossible for any of us to learn. "She's our priority too. All of us."
Something flashes in Wraith's eyes at that. Possessiveness, maybe, or doubt. He turns back to the blender without responding further.
The tension in the kitchen ratchets up another notch. I shift my weight, feeling like I'm standing in a minefield. One wrong step and the whole place might explode.
"Look," I say, unable to keep quiet any longer, "we all need to get on the same page here. The omega—"
"Ivy," comes a soft voice from the doorway.
Time stops.
We all turn as one to see her standing there, and holy fuck, she's even more beautiful than in my dreams.
She's small—barely over five feet—with curves that even Wraith's oversized t-shirt can't completely hide.
Her hair is damp from a shower, the dark brown dye starting to fade at the roots, revealing strands of auburn.
But it's her eyes that catch me, bright and clear like the ocean, a stunning mix of blue and green that makes my heart sing when they meet mine.
And her scent. Honeysuckle and summer rain, stronger and purer than the traces we caught through the vents. It fills the kitchen, wrapping around us all like a divine embrace.
"My name is Ivy," she says again, her voice steady despite the way her fingers twist nervously in the hem of Wraith's shirt. "Not 'the omega.'"
For a moment, none of us move or speak. We're all just staring at her like idiots, caught in some kind of collective trance. Even Plague seems affected, his usually impassive face showing a flicker of wonder.
Wraith recovers first, moving to her side with surprising speed for someone his size. He positions himself slightly in front of her, protective but not possessive, and I notice how she leans toward him instinctively, drawing comfort from his presence.
That stings more than I want to admit.
"Ivy," Thane says, testing the name on his tongue. He takes a step forward, then stops when Wraith tenses. "I'm Thane. We… didn't get properly introduced last night." His voice sounds hoarse. Thick.
"I know who you are," she says. "I looked you all up."
Her eyes move from Thane to me, and fuck me if my heart doesn't actually skip a beat when those beautiful ocean eyes meet mine. "Whiskey," she says, and hearing my name in her voice does something weird to my insides. "Sorry about the hockey stick to the head."
I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. "No hard feelings, sweetheart. I shouldn't have busted in there like that."
Her gaze shifts to Plague, who stands perfectly still under her scrutiny. "And Plague," she says. "Sorry about the cologne in your eyes."
"It was deserved," Plague replies, his voice carefully neutral despite the way his knuckles have gone white around the handle of the spatula.
Ivy takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. "I think we should talk. All of us. About... whatever this is." She gestures vaguely between herself and the four of us. "But first, um… coffee?"
The question is so normal, so unexpected after the tension of the moment, that I actually laugh. "Yeah, it's probably the only thing I can make without burning the house down."
"Debatable," Plague mutters.
Ivy smiles—a small, tentative smile that transforms her face—and steps further into the kitchen, Wraith moving with her like a massive shadow. "I'd kill for a cup. Haven't had decent coffee in weeks," she says to me.
She's talking to me.
Ivy, the omega of my dreams—my literal dreams—is talking to me.
And all I can do is stare at her like a lovestruck puppy.