Chapter 41 – WHISKEY #2
"Better than acting like an uptight asshole."
"I'm not uptight, I'm disciplined."
"You're so tight, you're gonna implode and create a black hole. Put us all out of our misery."
"Uptight, not tight," he hisses. "And I'm not fucking uptight."
"Oh, I'm sorry," I growl, feeling my temper start to slip. "Is my existence making it hard for you to pretend you're not affected? Because newsflash, Ice Prince—I can smell exactly how 'unaffected' you are."
Plague's eyes flash dangerously. "Keep your voice down."
"Or what?" I challenge in an even harsher whisper, rising to my feet. The tension that's been building since we left the pack house is about to snap like a damn rubber band. "What are you gonna do about it?"
He stands too. "Don't test me, Whiskey. Not here. Not now."
"That's your problem. You're always holding back. Always hiding behind that mask and that… fucking turtleneck like you're better than everyone else. Better than me."
"You can't hide behind a turtleneck," he hisses, taking a step toward me. "And I'm not hiding, I'm controlling myself, which is more than I can say for you."
"Yeah? How's that working out for you?" I gesture to the visible bulge in his pants that he can't hide anymore now that he's on his feet. "Because from where I'm standing, you're about five seconds away from losing your shit."
Plague takes another step toward me, his eyes flashing dangerously. "You have no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't I?"
The sound of a wary omega growl from the bed draws both our attention. Ivy is awake now and watching us with wide eyes, her hands clutching one of her blankets. Her honeysuckle scent has a clearly irritated citrus tang to it.
"Are you two seriously going to do this right now?" she asks flatly.
The directness of her question immediately douses some of the fire between Plague and me. We both take a step back, suddenly aware of how our aggression must look to her.
"I'm sorry," Plague says, his voice gentler than I've ever heard it.
"Yeah," I agree, running a hand through my hair. "We're being assholes. You've got enough shit to deal with. Did we wake you up?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry,” I say, sighing.
Ivy gives us both a measured look, but her shoulders are still visibly tense and rigid as she sits up fully in the nest, cross-legged, surrounded by soft blankets and Wraith's clothes.
"This is exactly what I’m worried about, you know.
That you two can't even be in the same room without losing control. "
“Whiskey—” Plague starts, but she cuts him off with a raised hand.
“No. Listen to me. I need to know I'm safe with you. Both of you. And I don’t exactly feel safe right now, scent matched or not.”
The honesty in her voice is like a punch to the gut. I take a step back, trying to make myself smaller, less threatening. Not easy.
"What do you need from us?" Plague asks quietly.
Ivy takes a deep breath, her expression thoughtful. “I need to know you can control yourselves. That you won't turn that aggression on me when my heat intensifies.”
"We would never—" I begin.
“You say that now,” she interrupts. “But I've seen what heat pheromones can do to alphas.”
Plague and I are both dead silent. Guess neither of us knows what to say to that.
Ivy shifts on the bed, and a fresh wave of her scent hits me like a truck. Honeysuckle and summer rain, sweeter now, more urgent. Her heat is intensifying. I grip the arm of the loveseat, my blunt nails digging into the cheap upholstery.
Across the room, Plague has gone completely still, his nostrils flaring slightly. Our eyes meet for a split second, and I see my own struggle reflected in his gaze before he breaks the contact.
"I should get some air," he says, starting to rise.
"No." Ivy's voice is firm. "You're not leaving me here."
"Ivy," Plague begins, his voice strained, "I don't think—"
"I know what's happening between you two," she interrupts. "I can smell it too, you know. Both of you."
Fuck. Of course she can. An omega's sense of smell during heat is even sharper than an alpha's. She can probably scent every drop of sweat, every surge of arousal, every moment of restraint.
"It's not just me that's got you two wound up," she continues, her gaze moving between us. "It's each other, too, isn't it?"
The bluntness of her observation hits like a body check. I stare at her, momentarily speechless.
"Of course not," Plague says, but even I can hear the lack of conviction in his voice.
"No?" Ivy challenges. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you two want to either kill each other or fuck each other. Maybe both."
All I can do is stare at her, shocked by her bluntness.
I don't even know if she's right. But that's the problem.
I don't know. The weird shit that's gone on between me and Plague for years doesn't make sense to me, either.
I know I hate him, and the feeling's mutual, but that just makes it more confusing for some reason.
Plague's face has gone carefully blank, his preferred expression when he's truly rattled. "I don't see how this is relevant to our current situation," he mutters, somehow not rudely. Apparently, he reserves every ounce of niceness he's capable of for Ivy.
"It's relevant because we're stuck in this room together for who knows how long," Ivy reminds us. "And at this rate, you're going to tear each other apart before nightfall.”
"We're fine," Plague insists.
"You're not fine," she counters. “None of us are fine. I'm in heat and you two are about to spontaneously combust.”
She's right. This pressure cooker of a room is going to explode if something doesn't give. I watch her face, noting the flush on her cheeks, the dilation of her pupils. Her heat is affecting her too.
"What exactly are you suggesting?" Plague asks carefully.
Ivy hesitates, biting her lower lip. She looks away, her fingers twisting nervously in the blankets of her nest. "I think maybe you two need to work through whatever this is between you," she says carefully. "Before things get even more complicated."
"You… want us to get each other off?" I ask her directly, my eyebrows shooting up.
She blinks in surprise at my bluntness, then nods.
The room falls silent. I look at Plague, really look at him. The perfect posture, the way he holds himself apart from everything and everyone. What would it be like to break through all that ice? To see what's beneath his discipline?
I've been wondering for years.
"I'm game if you are," I say to him.
Plague's eyes snap to mine, widening slightly. "You can't be serious."
"I am." I shift on the loveseat, leaning forward. "Come on, Plague. She's right. We've been dancing around this for how long? Years?"
"We have not—"
"Bullshit," I cut him off. "You think I don't notice the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention? The way you keep exactly six feet between us at all times, like you're afraid of what'll happen if you get closer?"
A flush creeps up Plague's neck, visible above the high collar of his turtleneck. "I'm not afraid of you."
"No? Then prove it, Ice Prince. What's it gonna be?" I ask, voice low. "You in or out?"
For a moment, I think he's going to walk out of the room. Then, to my surprise, he pushes the desk chair back and stands, straightening to his full height and pulling his mask off.
"I have conditions," he says, folding the mask and setting it aside.
Of course he does. "Name 'em."
"We respect each other's limits. We stop immediately if things get too intense and Ivy gets nervous.
And..." He takes a deep breath, some of his composure slipping.
"And you don't comment on this afterward.
Not in the locker room, not on the ice, not anywhere.
You never mention this again for the rest of our fucking lives. "
"Deal," I say without hesitation. "Though that last one's gonna be hard. I make jokes when I'm nervous. You know how I am at funerals."
"Try," he says dryly.
I turn to Ivy. "You still want this?"
She nods, her eyes wide and curious. "Yes."
"Any preferences on how we... proceed?" Plague asks, already slipping into planning mode like this is a fucking hockey play.
Ivy shakes her head. "Whatever feels normal."
Normal. Right. Like there's anything normal about hooking up with your packmate while your scent match watches from her nest.
Then again, nothing about this situation is normal.
I take another step toward Plague, closing most of the distance between us. Up close, I can see the flecks of silver in his pale blue eyes, a scrape of stubble along his jaw that he must have missed while shaving this morning. His scent envelops me. Cold, stormy steel.
“Last chance to back out, Ice Prince,” I say.
“I never back out of anything,” he replies, voice low.
And I kiss him.