Chapter 45 – IVY #2
"That's quite an endorsement."
"It's the truth. Thane has been the moral compass of this pack since its formation. Without him, we'd probably have killed each other years ago."
"And with him?"
"With him, we're… family," he says quietly.
The simple statement carries more weight than any elaborate explanation could. I can hear the affection in Plague's voice, the deep loyalty that binds these alphas together despite their differences.
"And Wraith?" I ask, curious what his response will be.
I already decided what I think of him a long time ago, but the verdict is still out on the others, even if they are growing me.
Knowing how they see their gentlest packmate, even if he is physically the most intimidating, will go a long way.
Or tell me I gave the benefit of the doubt where I shouldn't have.
Plague seems surprised by the question, but he doesn't answer immediately. He considers it for a few seconds before answering. "Wraith is a wild card. Or at least, that's how he is with everyone else. With you, he seems… different."
"Different how?"
A faint smile tugs at his lips. "Well, he's actually responding to the group chat. That's out of the ordinary."
I manage a laugh. "He does seem guarded."
"He has reason," Plague concedes thoughtfully.
"He doesn't really trust anyone besides Thane. Or rather, he didn’t.
Even then, there's a wall up. But I can assure you that you have nothing to fear from him.
And I say that as someone whose head he's come dangerously close to caving in on more than one occasion. "
I actually don’t think he’s exaggerating.
"Though I suppose my word doesn't mean much," Plague adds with characteristic self-deprecation. "Coming from another virtual stranger."
"You're not a stranger anymore," I say softly. "Not after last night."
Plague's eyes meet mine, something vulnerable flickering in their pale depths before he looks away. "Last night was..."
"Incredible," I finish when he trails off.
"I was going to say complicated," he says with a soft laugh.
"Why can't it be both?"
Before he can answer, Whiskey stirs between us, letting out a deep groan that sounds like a diesel engine turning over. His massive frame stretches, arms reaching toward the ceiling as he works the kinks out of his spine. The bones pop audibly in the quiet of the hotel room.
"Fuck," he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. "What time is it?"
"Early," I whisper. "Go back to sleep."
"Nah, I'm up." He rolls onto his side to face me, honey-brown eyes still heavy with sleep but alert enough to focus on my face. "You okay, sweetheart? You look tired."
"Just couldn't sleep. My body's still on tunnel time."
"Tunnel time?"
"Four AM wake-up calls for two months straight. Hard habit to break."
Whiskey's expression darkens as he's reminded of what I went through, but he visibly pushes past it instead of bugging me about it. "You hungry?"
Now that he mentions it, I'm starving. The combination of heat hormones and last night's activities has left me with an appetite that could rival his own.
"Yeah, actually. I could eat."
"Perfect." Whiskey sits up, running both hands through his disheveled hair. "Nothing wrong with pre-sunrise breakfast. I know a place."
"It's not even six yet," Plague points out.
"So? Best diners are open twenty-four hours. Besides, we're less likely to be recognized at this hour."
He has a point. The fewer people who see us together, the better. “I could carry this notepad,” I say, picking up the one on the nightstand. “Pretend I’m a journalist if anyone sees us.”
Whiskey fist pumps the air. "Fuck yeah."
Five minutes turns into ten as I stand under the hotel's mediocre shower spray, trying to wash away the lingering scent of last night's activities.
Not because I'm ashamed—far from it—but because walking into a public place reeking of sex and heat pheromones seems like a bad idea when we're supposed to be keeping a low profile.
The water pressure is shit, but at least it's hot.
I let it pound against my shoulders, working out the pleasant aches from being thoroughly fucked by two alphas who clearly knew what they were doing.
My body feels different. Claimed in a way that has nothing to do with marks or ownership and everything to do with choice.
My choice.
That thought sends another warm flutter through my chest, even as my practical side reminds me this is supposed to be temporary. No strings attached, just biology and convenience and mutual need. At least for now.
So why does it feel like more?
I shake my head, forcing myself to focus on the present instead of overthinking every interaction. One day at a time. One decision at a time. That's how I've survived this long, and it's how I'll keep surviving.
When I emerge from the bathroom, toweling my hair dry, I find Whiskey and Plague in the middle of what can only be described as the world's most awkward getting-ready routine.
They're moving around each other like they're choreographing a dance where the steps involve never making eye contact or getting within three feet of each other.
Whiskey's pulling on his leather jacket with unnecessarily assertive movements while Plague meticulously folds and smooths his clothes from yesterday. The tension between them is so thick I could cut it with a knife.
"Ready?" Whiskey asks, flashing his usual easy grin as he glances up at me, his gaze roaming over my outfit.
The simple blouse and jeans I'm wearing now hug my figure, but I'd rather hide in plain sight than dress like someone who's trying not to be noticed.
And I do give "spy on the run" vibes in the hoodie, however comfy and warm it is.
"Yep," I say, trying to sound peppy and full of energy even though I'm still groggy and sore from last night.
Plague's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "We should take separate elevators. Less conspicuous."
"Or," Whiskey says with false cheer, "we could act like normal people instead of international fugitives. It's breakfast, not a drug deal."
"Nothing about this situation is normal," Plague replies coolly, looking at the surgical mask in his hands like he's considering whether putting it on will make it immediately obvious who he is. He decides to think better of it and folds it before slipping it into his pocket.
"Separate elevators it is," I say before this can escalate into another alpha argument. "Plague, you go first. Whiskey and I will follow in a few minutes."
Plague nods curtly, gathering his things. He pauses at the door, his pale blue eyes meeting mine for just a moment. There's something vulnerable there, quickly masked, before he slips out without another word.
The silence that follows feels heavy and awkward.
Whiskey suddenly rakes both hands through his hair. "He's gonna pretend none of it happened," he mutters finally, staring at the closed door. "He's gonna act like we just helped you through your heat and nothing else went down."
"Maybe that's for the best," I say carefully, testing his reaction.
Whiskey gives me a wary look. "You think so?"
"I think," I say, choosing my words with care, "that you two have a lot of history I don't understand. And maybe pushing too hard too fast isn't the answer. I'm sure I'm not the only one who needs to take all this slow."
He deflates slightly, shoulders slumping. "Yeah. Maybe you're right."
But I can see in his face that he doesn't believe it. Whiskey doesn't do subtle. Never has, from what I've seen. He's all blunt force and honest emotion, which is probably exactly what someone like Plague needs. But he doesn't seem to realize that yet.
"Come on," I say, slinging my small backpack over my shoulder. "Let's go get some terrible diner coffee and pretend we're normal people for a few hours."
"Hey. This place is top fuckin' notch."
The elevator ride down is mercifully short, though Whiskey spends the entire time fidgeting like he's got ants in his pants. He keeps checking his phone, then shoving it back in his pocket, then pulling it out again thirty seconds later.
"Anything important?" I ask.
"Nah, just..." He shows me the screen. "Wraith keeps texting. Wants to make sure you're okay." He glances over at me. "In a threatening way."
I smile despite myself. "He's sweet."
"He's fucking smitten," Whiskey corrects with a grin that's more genuine than anything I've seen from him since we left the hotel room. "Never seen him like this before. It's actually kind of adorable, in a terrifying seven-foot-tall murder machine kind of way."
I grin, too. "More like a cuddle machine."
And a fucking machine.
But I'm not about to say that out loud.
Whiskey arches an eyebrow at me like I'm completely insane, but he doesn't comment.
Guess he's seen a different side of Wraith that's only reserved for alphas.
To be fair, there were a few Whiskey-sized holes in the walls when I kept them all from tearing each other apart.
And Plague's words are still fresh in my mind.
The elevator dings softly as we reach the lobby. Through the glass doors, I see Plague standing near the entrance, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Although his eyes light up a fraction when he sees me.
"He's not going to run, is he?" I ask, only half-joking.
Whiskey follows my gaze and snorts. "Nah. He's too polite to ditch us. But he's definitely gonna spend the entire meal acting like he's got a stick up his ass."
"Bigger stick than usual?"
"Way bigger. Like, telephone pole sized."
Despite everything, I laugh.
We make our way across the lobby, past early-rising business travelers and a few night shift workers heading home. I keep my head down, but nobody gives us a second glance. It's busy enough in here that we're just another group of people getting an early start to their day.
Plague falls into step beside us as we exit the hotel, his posture rigid and formal. "The diner is three blocks north," he says without preamble. "Twenty-four hour establishment, minimal security cameras, cash only."
Whiskey's grin falters. "Wait, no Waffle House?"
"Too busy," Plague says flatly.
Whiskey lets out a groan like Plague just ruined his life.
"You've really thought this through," I observe.
"I believe in being prepared," Plague replies stiffly.
Whiskey rolls his eyes. "He probably has escape routes mapped out too. And contingency plans for contingency plans. Where are we gonna go if the shit hits the fan, Plague? The tiles in the ceiling, Jurassic Park style?"
"As a matter of fact—"
"Shit, Plague. It's breakfast."
I tune out their bickering as we walk, focusing instead on the city waking up around us.
Early morning joggers pound past on the sidewalk, eyes flicking to us but not stopping to find out who we are.
The sky is starting to lighten at the edges, gold and violet and orange shining through the morning fog.
It's been so long since I've been able to walk freely through a city without constantly looking over my shoulder. Even now, with the threat of Valek and the possibility of discovery hanging over us, I feel free and safe.
Maybe it's the company. Hard to feel completely vulnerable when you're flanked by two alphas who've sworn they'll protect you with their lives.
More importantly, I actually think I believe them.