Chapter 37 – THANE
Chapter
Thirty-Seven
THANE
Isink into what's left of our couch, wincing as my ribs protest. Everything hurts. My jaw throbs where Wraith landed that first blow in the parking garage. The headache I thought had receded is back, pulsing behind my eyes in rhythm with my heartbeat.
And now Valek is here. In our house. Prowling around like he owns the place.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
At least the group chat seems to be working.
Keeping Ivy updated without having to go up to the loft is probably for the best. The less movement in and out of there, the better.
I still don't entirely trust the seal Plague and I put on the trapdoor.
If Valek is even half as perceptive as he seems, he'll notice any irregularities.
Speaking of irregularities, the new couch still reeks of factory chemicals. No matter how much we sprayed, there's no mistaking it for a piece of furniture that's been lived on. Everything in this room screams "hastily assembled cover-up." I just hope Valek doesn't look too closely.
"You dress like an assassin with a LinkedIn profile," Whiskey's voice carries from the kitchen, drawing my attention.
"And you dress like you fell through the roof of a Tractor Supply and retained whatever stuck to you," Plague replies, his tone glacial. "Your fashion advice means less than nothing to me."
"Hey. They have some quality shit."
Great. They're at it again. I can practically feel my blood pressure rising as Whiskey and Plague emerge from the kitchen, continuing whatever argument they've started now.
Whiskey's pulling his leather jacket on, keys jingling in his hand.
Plague is adjusting the cuffs of his black turtleneck—yes, a fucking turtleneck sweater on a warm day—with stiff movements that somehow manage to convey his annoyance.
"All I'm saying is maybe loosen up a little," Whiskey continues. "Especially now that we've got a you-know-what in the house. You're wound so tight I'm surprised you don't squeak when you walk."
I rub my temples, willing my migraine to subside. "Can you two shut the hell up for five min—"
"A what in the house?"
All three of us snap to attention as Valek appears in the doorway, his silver eyes glinting with interest. He leans casually with his shoulder against the frame, arms folded across his chest, and one leg crossed over the other like he's been there the entire fucking time.
But there's nothing casual about the way he's studying us.
Shit. What has he heard? I thought he was in his damn room.
For such a tall alpha, he moves like a ghost. My pulse quickens, and I resist the urge to touch my ribs where they're still aching from my fight with Wraith.
This is exactly what we've been trying to avoid. Valek overhearing anything about Ivy.
Plague goes perfectly still and Whiskey's mouth clamps shut so fast I swear I hear his teeth click together.
"Nothing," I say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. "Just team stuff."
Valek's thin smile tells me he doesn't believe me for a second. "Ah. 'Team stuff.'" He steps into the room. "You know, in my experience, when conversations halt the moment a foreigner enters the room, it's rarely... how do you Americans put it? Good news."
Wait... does he think we were saying something about him? I open my mouth to reply, but Whiskey beats me to it.
"Whoa, dude." Whiskey holds up his hands, eyes wide. "Nobody here has a problem with foreigners. I have no issue with Canadians whatsoever. And Plague's from the Ottoman Empire."
“The Ottoman Empire doesn't exist anymore,” Plague says incredulously.
"That's where you told me you were from!" Whiskey protests.
"That was a joke!" Plague hisses.
And with that, they're off to the races with another heated and utterly pointless debate. If these two don't resolve whatever bizarre chemistry has been boiling between them for years, they're going to kill each other.
Valek's eyebrows rise slightly. "Canadian?" he repeats. "And here I heard you didn't believe that."
Whiskey looks up from his argument with Plague. Plague is still bitching at him, but Whiskey can only pay attention to one thing at a time. It's both a curse and a blessing on the ice. "Are you?"
Valek flashes a grin and a navy blue Canadian passport he must've been keeping in his pocket for the sole purpose of fucking with Whiskey. The gold foil design on the front shimmers in the light.
"Dude, that's sick," Whiskey says, all previous disdain evaporating instantly. Like a giant golden retriever that was supposed to guard the house but just realized the burglar has snacks. "Is that a coat of arms? My passport's nowhere near that badass. It just has an eagle on it."
"My other passport is decorated with an eagle, too," Valek says dryly, handing the Canadian passport to Whiskey for inspection. "An eagle with two heads."
Whiskey stops caressing the gold foil coat of arms and stares at Valek, the wheels clearly turning in his brain as he starts to put the pieces together of whatever pointless puzzle he's been working on in his head.
"You're French, bro?"
Valek barks out a laugh.
Plague shoots Whiskey a look that could freeze hell itself. "Perhaps we should all agree that nationality is irrelevant to hockey skill and leave it at that." He glances at Valek, who’s still laughing, with an embarrassed grimace of a smile. "I'm sorry. We're not all this obtuse."
"Obtuse, huh?" Whiskey rounds on Plague like he's going to slap him with Valek's passport. "What the fuck does weight have to do with anything?"
Plague stares at him in bewilderment. “What do you think ‘obtuse’ means?”
Here we fucking go again.
My migraine roars back to life and I pinch the bridge of my nose to hold it off.
But while Whiskey and Plague bitch at each other about learning new words and reading a dictionary for a change instead of the back of a cereal box, I watch over my hand as Valek moves further into the room, making a slow circuit around our new furniture.
His fingers trail over the back of the couch, pausing at a throw pillow that Ivy arranged earlier. Every muscle in my body tenses.
"Everything is new," Valek comments. "I must have really disrupted the feng shui of the place with my arrival."
"Like I said, we were planning to redecorate anyway," I reply, keeping my voice steady despite my headache.
"Hmm." Valek picks up the pillow, brings it to his face, and inhales deeply. My heart damn near stops. "This scent... what is it? Some sort of air freshener?"
Shit. We sprayed this place with every neutralizing agent Plague could find, but there's no way to completely eliminate scent molecules. Not from fabric. Not from an omega in heat. Did Ivy wear gloves when she placed that pillow?
"Febreze," Whiskey interjects. "The fresh linen kind. Plague's obsessed with it. Sprays that shit everywhere."
Plague's eyes narrow at him.
Valek looks between them, that faint smile never leaving his face. "Fascinating dynamic you all have." He sets the pillow down, but not quite in the same spot Ivy placed it. "Tell me, do you often destroy your living room when a new teammate arrives? Or am I special?"
"No," I say, standing up despite the protest from my ribs. I need to be on my feet, not looking up at him from the couch. It's a subtle dominance thing, and he knows it. "Like I said, we had a particularly rowdy team bonding night. Whiskey got drunk, hence the name. It happens."
"Every pack has its wild card," Plague says. He looks perfectly composed, but I can smell the sharp note of tension in his scent. "We happen to have two of them. But it creates balance."
Valek turns toward him, and the atmosphere in the room shifts. Two predators sizing each other up, testing for weaknesses. "Is that what you provide? The counterweight to all this..." he gestures vaguely around the room, at the evidence of violence and hasty repairs, "... chaos?"
"I've found order is preferable to its alternative," Plague responds, not backing away despite Valek entering his personal space.
"Yet you choose to live with these alphas," Valek observes, his voice dropping slightly. "Surrounded by their impulses and aggression. One might wonder why someone who craves order would want that. Of course, opposites attract."
"Hey." Whiskey barrels between them, all dog energy crashing into a standoff between two cats. "Are you two gonna kill each other or are you gonna fuck? Because we've got shit to do today."
Plague's head snaps toward Whiskey, eyes flashing with genuine anger. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"What? I'm not judging. I'm supporting. Big difference."
"Whiskey," I growl, a warning.
"For fuck's sake," Plague mutters, turning away. "I'll be in the car." He strides toward the door, shoulders and back rigid.
Whiskey just grins. "I'm ready, bro! I was waiting for you!" He bounds after Plague like an oversized puppy, pausing only to shoot me a look over his shoulder.
A look that clearly says get rid of him.
The front door closes behind them with a slam and a click, leaving me alone with Valek.
Valek is the first to break the silence. "He still has my passport."
Some of the tension bleeds out of my shoulders. Not all of it, but some. I blow a puff of air through my nose and sink back onto the couch, trying not to wince as my ribs protest. "Hope you don't need it anytime soon. Whiskey would lose his own ass if it wasn't attached to his legs."
"Your teammates are quite the characters," Valek observes, his posture loosening slightly now that it's just the two of us. He moves to sit in the armchair across from me, crossing one long leg over the other. "I sense not everyone is thrilled with the new member of the pack house."
"It's nothing personal," I say, sighing. "We're a close-knit group. Takes time to integrate anyone new."
"And Wraith? Will he be integrating me as well, or should I expect another concussion the next time we cross paths?"
"Wraith will keep his distance," I say, then add pointedly, "As long as you keep yours."
Valek studies me for a long moment, his silver eyes unreadable. "You're very protective of him."
"He's my brother."
"Not by blood."
"That doesn't matter," I say sharply, then regret letting him get under my skin again. I take a deep breath, then immediately regret that too as pain lances through my ribcage. "Family is more than blood."
Something flickers across Valek's face then. A shadow, a glimpse of emotion quickly masked. "Yes," he says quietly. "I suppose it is."
The sudden shift in his tone catches me off guard. There's a weight to his words, a strange heaviness that seems at odds with the predatory aura from moments before.
"You have family?" I ask before I can stop myself. It's not what I meant to say, but something about that brief flash of emotion has thrown me off.
Valek is silent for a moment, his gaze drifting to the window. "Yes. Adoptive." His voice has gentled, lost its edge. "In Canada."
"You were adopted?" I ask, not sure why I'm pursuing this line of conversation when I should be keeping him at arm's length. "Wraith was my foster brother—"
"I keep my worlds separate, if you don't mind," he says, cutting me off. And just like that, any vulnerability is gone, locked away.
"Why hockey?" I ask, partly to keep him talking, partly because I'm genuinely curious. There's nothing in his file about prior experience with the sport, no junior leagues, no college play. He appeared out of nowhere with skills that had scouts salivating.
Valek's mouth curves into that now-familiar sardonic smirk, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Why not? It's a violent sport played on knife shoes. What's not to love?"
"Most people don't pick up a professional-level sport on a whim."
"I'm not most people," he replies smoothly. "And who said it was a whim?"
I watch him carefully, trying to read between the lines. "Your file is... thin."
"That bothers you." It's not a question. "The captain needs to know everything about his team. Control every variable."
"It's not about control," I counter. "It's about trust."
"Ah, trust." He leans back in the chair, something dark flashing in his eyes. "A concept I've found to be vastly overrated."
There it is again. That undercurrent of something deeper, something almost painful.
It resonates with me more than I want to admit. He reminds me of Wraith in his early days with our family. The wariness. The expectation of betrayal. The walls built so high and thick that nothing could get through.
"Trust is earned," I say finally. "On both sides."
Valek studies me, his expression unreadable. Then he uncrosses his legs and stands in one fluid motion. "Well. This has been enlightening, Captain, but I believe I'll retire to my room. The doctor demands rest, after all."
I stand as well, ignoring the pain in my ribs. "Of course."
He moves toward the hallway that leads to the stairs, pausing at the bottom to look back at me. "And could you open the windows? The smell of fresh paint isn't doing my concussion any favors."
My blood freezes in my veins, but I keep my expression neutral. "Sure."
He climbs the stairs without looking back, his footsteps fading down the hallway overhead. I stand rooted to the spot, my pulse pounding in my ears.
He knows.
Maybe not everything, but enough to be dangerous. Enough to keep poking, prodding, looking for weaknesses in our defenses.
I pull out my phone and send a quick message to the group chat, deliberately vague.
THANE
V suspects something. Be extra careful.
Fuck, I hate that stupid emoji Whiskey stuck to my name.
I slip the phone back into my pocket, wincing as I ease myself down onto the couch. The pain in my ribs is nothing compared to the pounding in my head.
Between Wraith going rogue, Ivy hiding in the loft, and now Valek circling like a shark scenting blood, I'm starting to wonder if it's possible for an alpha to spontaneously combust from stress.