Chapter 38 – PLAGUE #2
"What now?" I ask, not bothering to mask my irritation.
Whiskey doesn't move. He just studies me with those honey-brown eyes that seem to see too much despite him being an absolute meathead. "You know, for someone who prides himself on being so fucking rational, you're not very good at hiding how you feel."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, my voice deliberately neutral despite the sudden tightness in my chest.
"Yeah, you do." He leans in slightly, not enough to be threatening, but enough to make it impossible to ignore him. "And I can see right through you, pretty boy."
"Move, Whiskey," I say through my teeth. "We have supplies to deliver, in case you've forgotten."
For a moment, I think he's going to push it further, crossing one of the many boundaries I've carefully erected between us. His eyes drop to my mouth, and not for the first time. Then he steps back, the maddening grin returning to his face.
"Sure thing, honey."
I push past him with more force than necessary, sliding into the driver's seat and slamming the door.
My heart hammers against my ribs and I grip the steering wheel to steady my hands, focusing on the feel of the leather beneath my fingers, the familiar clean scent of the car's interior, anything to ground myself in reality rather than the chaos of my thoughts.
Sometimes it feels like Whiskey's a fucking brain cell vampire. Like he enters my personal space and starts sucking my mind dry. If there's such a thing as emotional vampires, why not mind vampires?
He gets in the passenger side, still wearing that insufferable grin. I start the engine without a word and tear out of the parking space with a squeal from the tires.
Whiskey lets out a low whistle at the rare loss of control over my temper and I turn out of the parking lot hard enough to jostle him against the door. He chuckles, but he doesn't say anything.
And for once, he stays silent.
Normally, within the first five seconds of being trapped in a car together, he's already filling the silence with chatter and jokes. This time, he stares out the window, uncharacteristically quiet as we navigate through evening traffic.
The only sound in the damn car is the occasional piercing ding from my dashboard because he didn't put on his seat belt. He doesn't fix it, of course.
This alpha exists to drive me insane.
"What?" I finally snap, the silence rapidly becoming somehow more unbearable than his voice. "No commentary about the store? No jokes about the employee thinking I was an omega? You're actually choosing now to develop self-restraint?"
He doesn't rise to the bait, just turns to look at me with an expression I can't read at all. "Nope. Just thinking."
"That's alarming."
A flicker of amusement crosses his face, but it's fleeting. "Sorry to disappoint you."
"I'm not disappointed," I say, too quickly. "Just surprised."
"Yeah, well, surprises are good for you. Keeps you on your toes."
Then he lapses back into silence, turning to look out the window again. His right knee bounces, the only sign of the restless energy always simmering beneath the surface.
My gaze flicks over him in irritation, at the space across his chest and stomach where his seat belt should be. The dashboard dings again, but I don't dare tell him to put it on. He'd start crowing about how I care.
He catches me glaring at him and he glances down at his body, then back up at me, the corner of his mouth lifting in a slight smirk. I curl my lip right back at him and he puffs a burst of air through his nose in response.
Like having a damn bull in my car.
I should be grateful for the reprieve from his endless commentary, but instead, I find myself increasingly unsettled. Whiskey thinking is never a good sign. It invariably leads to some half-baked plan or impulsive decision that causes utter chaos for the rest of us to clean up.
Like breaking into Wraith's loft.
Like antagonizing our new teammate.
Like pushing and prodding at me every chance he gets, as if testing how far he can go before I break.
My knuckles whiten on the steering wheel as I take another turn too sharply, the bags and the box from the omega store rustling in the trunk. I force myself to loosen my grip, to steady my breathing.
Control. I need control.
"Are you going to share whatever profound thoughts are occupying that head of yours?" I finally ask, unable to tolerate the mounting tension. "Or am I supposed to guess?"
Whiskey shifts in his seat, angling his body toward me. "Do you really want to know?"
There's something in his tone that warns me to say no.
"Yes," I say instead, because apparently my rationality has abandoned me entirely today. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch him studying me, his usually boisterous presence subdued in a way that puts me even more on edge.
The dashboard dings again. My jaw clenches.
"I'm thinking about Ivy," he finally says, his voice low and rough. "And I'm thinking about you. And I'm thinking about why those two things keep getting tangled up in my head."
My grip tightens on the steering wheel again. "We're all affected by her scent. It's biology. As I've already explained."
"Yeah, that's what you keep saying." He leans back in his seat, but his gaze remains fixed on me. "But here's the thing. It doesn't explain why I was dreaming about you before she ever entered those same dreams."
The words hit me like a slap. I keep my eyes fixed on the road, fighting to maintain my composure even as heat crawls up my neck to my face.
"Don't."
"Don't what?" He's watching me too closely, tracking every micro-expression I fail to suppress. "Don't say it out loud? Don't acknowledge what's been happening between us for years?"
"There's nothing happening between us," I say through gritted teeth. "We're packmates. Nothing more."
"Bullshit. You feel it too. That's why you're always so wound up around me. Why you flinch when I get too close. Why I piss you off just by existing."
"I'd appreciate if you'd drop this line of conversation."
"Would you?" He shifts again, leaning closer.
"Yes," I bite out, taking the turn onto our street sharply enough to knock him back into the passenger seat where he belongs. Ding. I gesture angrily to the pack house looming up ahead as we pull into the parking garage. "Look. We're home. We don't have time for this."
"Fair enough," he says dryly, already opening the door even though I haven't even had time to pull into a damn parking space yet.
"For fuck's sake, Whiskey!" I slam the brakes, jerking us both forward.
He's already got his foot half out of the door as we roll to a stop in the parking spot. The dashboard dings one last time in final protest.
"What?" He blinks innocently at me. "We're here."
"We're not even stopped," I hiss, throwing the car into park with more force than necessary. "Do you have a death wish? Oh wait. You do. I already know that."
"Says the alpha driving like he's qualifying for NASCAR." He's already out of the car, already moving to the trunk.
I take a deep breath, counting backward from five before I allow myself to exit the vehicle. Calm. Control. Discipline. These are the things that keep me from committing justifiable homicide on a daily basis.
The trunk is already open when I round the car. Whiskey has the box balanced on one broad shoulder, one of the bags dangling from his other hand. He looks at me expectantly.
"You just gonna stand there looking pretty, or are you gonna help?"
I grab the remaining bag and slam the trunk shut. "Let's go."
We walk toward the elevator in silence with the items for Ivy's heat. The tension between us stretches thinner, but doesn't break. I feel Whiskey's eyes on me, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back.
The elevator arrives with a soft chime. We step inside and I press the button for the third floor.
The doors slide closed, trapping us in the small space together.
Whiskey is quiet again, but his cinnamon-spiced scent fills the elevator.
I press myself against the opposite wall in a fruitless attempt to get away from it.
He smells like fucking apple pie.
Perhaps I’ll make one with extra arsenic just for him.