Chapter 41 – WHISKEY
Chapter
Forty-One
WHISKEY
I've never been so goddamn aware of two people breathing.
The hotel clerk's fingers click against the keyboard, each tap drilling into my skull like a fucking dentist's drill.
He's taking his sweet time, stealing glances at me and Plague like he's trying to figure out if we're famous or just weirdos.
His eyes keep darting to Plague's credit card.
Black. The kind only filthy rich people have.
"There's a convention kicking off tomorrow, so there's just one room available," the clerk says, eyes flicking between us. "King bed."
Of-fucking-course.
Plague's face remains perfectly neutral behind his surgical mask, but I catch the slight tightening of his jaw. "That's fine," he says.
"We'll take it," I say quickly before someone else snatches it up. "We're desperate."
Poor choice of words. The clerk's eyebrows shoot up.
"For sleep," I add, which only makes it worse.
Beside me, Plague exhales slowly through his nose. I can practically hear him counting to ten in his head. Ivy's still hiding in the car, waiting for us to secure the room before sneaking up. The clerk's face goes through a quick sequence of expressions. Recognition, confusion, then curiosity.
"You're from the Ghosts, right?" he asks. "You two are, uh—"
"We'd like to check in as quickly as possible," Plague cuts in, his voice chilly enough to freeze beer. "It's been a long day."
The clerk's mouth snaps shut. He slides two key cards across the counter, along with a pamphlet of hotel amenities. "Room 812. Eighth floor. Elevators are to your right."
"Thanks," I say, grabbing both key cards and the pamphlet while Plague signs the receipt.
We've barely made it ten feet away when I whip out my phone and text Ivy.
WHISKEY
Room 812. Take the stairs. We're heading up now.
IVY
Cool. On my way.
As we wait for the elevator, I feel Plague radiating discomfort beside me. He always stands with perfect posture, but now he's as rigid as he would be if someone literally shoved a hockey stick up his ass.
"Relax," I mutter. "People are gonna think you're being held hostage."
"I fail to see how my posture is of any concern," he replies, pressing the elevator call button again like he can make it arrive faster through sheer force of will.
"Just trying to sell our cover story, honey," I say, just to watch him squirm.
His eyes close briefly, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "Do not call me that again."
The elevator finally arrives, empty thank fuck, and we step inside. The moment the doors close, Plague moves to the opposite corner with his arms behind his back like a goddamn butler. Like I've got some disease he might catch.
"Did you bring that fire extinguisher Ivy clobbered Valek with?" I ask, glancing behind his back like he's hiding it. "In case I get too close?"
"Stop talking."
"Hey man, we're supposed to be together-together. What if there are cameras?"
"Then they'll assume we're fighting. And we're going to, by the way, if you don't keep your mouth shut."
There's a soft ding and the elevator doors slide open. Plague strides ahead without hesitating for even a moment, his back ramrod straight, those long legs eating up the distance. I jog to catch up.
"Slow down, Ice Prince. Ivy hasn't had time to make it upstairs yet."
He huffs but slows his pace. "We shouldn't be talking about her. What if someone hears us? You specifically. It's like you swallowed a megaphone."
"Goddamn, you're paranoid."
We reach room 812 and Plague swipes the key card.
The light flashes green, and the door swings open to reveal a decent-sized room with one king bed, a desk, a chair by the window, and a small loveseat that might fit a beta or a smaller alpha.
Definitely not me, and even though Plague's probably half my weight, he's just as tall.
"Shit," I mutter. "We're gonna be packed in like sardines."
Plague drops his bag by the desk and immediately begins unpacking Ivy's heat supplies, arranging them meticulously. I flop onto the bed, bouncing a little to test the springs. Not bad, other than the ominous cracking sound of cheap plywood planks under the boxspring.
"Don't get comfortable," Plague says without looking up. "You're sleeping on the loveseat."
I bark out a bewildered laugh. "You think I'm fitting on that thing? It's practically a dog bed. I'd need to chop off my arms and legs."
"Then sleep on the floor."
"Why don't you sleep on the floor?"
"I paid for the room."
I'm about to fire back when there's a soft knock at the door. Three quick taps, pause, two more. Our signal.
I jump up and open the door. Ivy slips inside, her cheeks flushed from climbing eight flights of stairs. She's wearing a baseball cap pulled low and one of Wraith's hoodies that swallows her whole. Even from here, I can smell her heat scent getting stronger, cutting through the scent neutralizers.
"Made it," she says, breathing hard. "No one saw me."
"You okay?" I ask, watching her catch her breath.
She nods, but I can see she's exhausted. Between the stress and her approaching heat, she looks ready to collapse.
"We should set up your nest," Plague says, gesturing to the supplies he's laid out. Smart fucker even packed a bunch of the blankets from the omega supply store order. "You'll need rest."
I watch as Ivy's eyes scan the room, coming to rest on the sole bed. Her lips press together in a thin line. "Not a lot of room, is there?"
"This was the only thing they had available," Plague says. "But Whiskey can sleep on the loveseat."
Ivy glances at the tiny loveseat, then at me. "That... doesn't look big enough."
"That's what I said!" I crow triumphantly.
"The floor works too," Plague adds, shooting me a pointed look.
Ivy raises her eyebrows. "You know neither of you is getting in bed with me, right?"
Plague and I exchange a look. Guess that hadn't occurred to us. Although now that I'm thinking about it, I'm actually kind of surprised Mr. I-Know-More-About-Omegas-Than-Everyone-In-This-Fucking-Pack didn't realize Ivy would rather not share a bed with two alphas she just met, scent matched or not.
Ivy begins unpacking her backpack, pulling out some of her things.
Throws, more of Wraith's clothes, a few trinkets.
She arranges them carefully on the bed, adding the soft blankets Plague and I brought from the store.
Her movements are purely instinctive, omega nesting behavior kicking in as she creates her safe space.
Watching her build the nest stirs up my animal instincts, too. I want to help, to provide, to secure.
I stomp those instincts down hard. The last thing she needs is me going all caveman on her when she's already vulnerable.
I retreat to the loveseat to put as much distance between us as possible in this shoebox of a room. Plague takes the desk chair, his back still rigid. I lean forward with my elbows on my knees and pretend to look out the window.
The awkward silence stretches, broken only by the soft rustling of fabric as Ivy continues working on her nest. I pull out my phone and text Thane and Wraith for an update. Wraith texts me the moment he must see I’m typing, which is shocking. Guy never texts.
WRAITH
Ivy ok?
whiskey
WHISKEY IS IVY OK
WHISKEY
Chill bro. She's fine. We're at the hotel. Everything good there?
THANE
All good. How's Ivy?
WHISKEY
Nesting. Heat's definitely coming on stronger.
THANE
Keep yourselves under control. Both of you.
WRAITH
yes.
That last text from Wraith is ominous as fuck. The period makes it so much worse. Who knew you could turn the word "yes" into a threat?
I glance up at Plague, who's staring at his own phone like it holds the secrets of the universe. He seems to sense me watching him and looks up, one eyebrow raised in silent question.
"Thane says don't fuck anything up," I tell him. "Wraith agrees."
"I know. I can read."
"You could text them, too, you know," I add.
"You text plenty for both of us," he mutters, returning to his phone.
I sigh and toss the phone on the cushion. Now we wait.
The problem is, waiting in a confined space with an omega entering heat is a special kind of torture.
Night falls, and nobody sleeps. Ivy tosses and turns in her nest, letting out soft, distressed whimpers that grate against my sanity.
Plague sits in the chair like a statue, staring at the door when he isn’t texting Wraith to reassure him Ivy is fine so he doesn’t panic and burn the city down.
I pace until I wear a groove in the carpet.
By the time the sun creeps through the curtains the next morning, the air in the room is thick enough to chew.
As the hours tick by, the room grows more stifling.
Ivy's honeysuckle scent intensifies, wrapping around my senses like a silk ribbon.
Each breath carries her to me, making my pulse thunder and my muscles tense up until they ache.
I shift uncomfortably on the loveseat, trying to focus on anything else.
The TV.
The ugly hotel art that's supposed to look like a canvas but was clearly printed on bubbly plastic.
The pattern on the carpet.
Anything but the omega sleeping fitfully in her nest or the alpha sitting rigidly by the desk, pretending he's not affected when I can smell his arousal cutting through his wintery scent.
Fucking liar.
My hands won't stop shaking. I clench them into fists, then release, watching as they tremble against my thighs.
My skin feels too tight, like I'm about to burst out of it.
Across the room, Plague's breathing has changed—faster, shallower.
He's gripping the edge of the desk hard enough that his knuckles have gone white.
"Would you stop fidgeting?" he whispers angrily, breaking the tense silence.
I hadn't even realized I was bouncing my leg. "Would you stop being such a dick?"
"I'm trying to maintain some semblance of control, which would be easier if you weren't acting like an overcaffeinated puppy."