Chapter 47 – IVY
Chapter
Forty-Seven
IVY
The diner's neon sign flickers like it's having an existential crisis, making everything a sickly pink that makes Plague look like he's about to commit murder. Which, to be fair, is his default expression whenever Whiskey opens his mouth.
"You're seriously putting ketchup and mustard on your eggs?" Plague's voice drips with the kind of disdain usually reserved for war crimes. "That's barbaric."
Whiskey grins around a mouthful of food, deliberately squirting more ketchup on his plate. "It's fucking delicious is what it is. You should try living a little, Ice Prince."
"I'd rather die."
"That can be arranged."
I take a sip of my coffee—black, bitter, perfect—and watch them over the rim of my mug.
We've been here for all of fifteen minutes and they've already argued about the proper way to sit in a booth (Plague insisted on facing the door, Whiskey wanted the corner seat), whether hash browns should be crispy or soft (another philosophical divide), and now the great ketchup debate.
The weird thing? I'm starting to think this is their version of foreplay.
"Could you two maybe dial back the sexual tension?" I say, cutting into my waffle. "The poor waitress looks traumatized."
Whiskey chokes on his orange juice. Plague goes so still I wonder if he's stopped breathing entirely.
"We don't have sexual tension," Plague says, each word careful and clipped like he's defusing a bomb.
"Right." I drag the word out, watching the way Plague's jaw tightens when Whiskey's knee bumps his under the table. "That's why you've mentioned three times that Whiskey chews too loud."
"He does chew too loud."
"And why Whiskey keeps 'accidentally' touching your hand when he reaches for the salt."
"The salt's on his side of the table."
"It's really not."
Whiskey's grinning now, that shit-eating grin that probably gets him both laid and punched in equal measure. "Aw, you notice when I touch you?"
"I notice when you invade my personal space like a fucking golden retriever with boundary issues," Plague snaps, but there's a flush creeping up his neck that has nothing to do with the diner's questionable heating system.
God, they're exhausting. And kind of adorable. In a dysfunctional, probably-going-to-kill-each-other way.
The waitress, Betty, refills my coffee without being asked. She's got that particular skill of diner waitresses everywhere—knowing when to appear and when to make herself scarce. Right now, she's definitely choosing scarce.
"So," I say, spearing a piece of waffle, "how long have you two been doing this dance?"
"What dance?" they ask in unison, then glare at each other like it's the other's fault they're synchronized.
"The one where you pretend you hate each other while eye-fucking across the table."
Plague makes a sound like he's being strangled. Whiskey just laughs, loud and genuinely delighted.
"I like you," Whiskey says, pointing his fork at me. "You don't pull punches."
"I've been living in maintenance tunnels and slowly turning feral. I don't have the energy for bullshit." I take another bite of waffle, savoring the way the syrup pools in the little squares. "Besides, after last night, I think we're past the point of pretending nothing's happening here."
The reminder of last night shifts something in the air between us. Plague's carefully maintained composure cracks just slightly, his pale eyes darkening as they flick to Whiskey, then to me. Whiskey shifts in his seat, and I catch the way his breathing changes, just for a second.
Yeah. We're definitely past pretending.
"Last night was—" Plague starts.
"If you say 'a simple response to the scent of omega heat' one more time, I'm going to stab you with this fork," I interrupt, holding up said fork for emphasis.
"I was going to say complicated."
"Everything with you is complicated." Whiskey leans back in the booth, one arm stretched along the back of the seat.
His fingers are maybe three inches from Plague's shoulder.
Plague is trying very hard not to notice.
"You can't just say 'that was hot, let's do it again.
' No, you gotta analyze it to death first."
"Some of us think before we act."
"Some of us actually act instead of just thinking about it for years."
"Some of us—"
"Oh my god." I set down my fork with a clatter. "You two are worse than my parents used to be, and they got divorced."
That shuts them up. They both look at me with matching expressions of concern, like I've just revealed some deep trauma. Which, I guess I kind of have, but not in the way they think.
"Relax," I say, waving them off. "It was a good thing. They were miserable together. Kept trying to make it work for my sake, but sometimes things are just broken, you know?"
Neither of them responds, but I see the way they carefully don't look at each other.
"Of course," I continue, cutting another piece of waffle, "their problem was that they never actually talked about what they wanted. Just kept assuming the other person should know. Like telepathy is a thing that exists."
"Subtle," Plague mutters.
"I don't do subtle. That's your thing." I point my fork at him, then at Whiskey. "And you don't do thinking. Maybe you two should switch for a day. Might learn something."
Whiskey snorts. "Can you imagine this guy just doing shit without planning every step first? He'd spontaneously combust."
"Says the alpha who once microwaved a frozen burrito on max settings while it was still in the foil wrapper," Plague shoots back.
"That was one time!"
"The fire department had to come."
"It was barely a fire. More like aggressive sparking."
I'm laughing now, genuinely laughing, and it feels.
.. good. Normal, even. Like I'm just a regular person having breakfast with two idiots who are clearly in love but too stubborn to admit it.
Not an omega on the run, hiding from an abusive ex, navigating the insanity of being scent-matched to an entire pack of alpha athletes.
For this moment, in this shitty diner with its flickering lights and questionable hygiene rating, I can pretend everything's simple.
"You two are ridiculous," I say, still grinning.
"He is," they say in unison, then glare at each other again.
"See? You're already finishing each other's sentences. Next thing you know, you'll be wearing matching sweaters."
"I would literally rather die," Plague says with feeling.
"Same," Whiskey agrees, then pauses. "Wait, are we agreeing on something?"
"Don't get used to it."
But there's less venom in Plague's voice now, and when Whiskey steals a piece of bacon from his plate, Plague just sighs instead of fending him off with his fork. Progress.
The bell above the door chimes as a new customer enters, and I instinctively tense. It's just habit now, that constant awareness of who's around me, who might be a threat. But it's just an old man in paint-stained coveralls, probably heading to an early job.
Whiskey notices my reaction though. His entire demeanor shifts, going from playful to protective in about half a second. "You okay?"
"Fine. Just... jumpy."
"Understandable," Plague says, and there's a gentleness in his voice that makes my chest warm. "You've been in survival mode for months. That's not something that just switches off."
He's right, of course. Even sitting here, relatively safe, surrounded by two alphas who've sworn to protect me, I can't fully relax. Part of me is always waiting for Wade to walk through that door. For everything to come crashing down.
"Hey." Whiskey's voice pulls me back. "You're safe. We've got you."
"I know." And I do know. These two might bicker like an old married couple, but they'd both throw themselves between me and danger without hesitation. I don't know them yet, but I can tell. "It's just... weird. Being out in the open like this."
"We can leave if you want," Plague offers immediately.
"No, I'm good. I like it here." I gesture around the diner with its cracked vinyl seats and ancient coffee machine that probably hasn't been cleaned since the Clinton administration. "It's normal. I've missed normal."
"This is your definition of normal?" Plague looks around with barely concealed horror. "The health code violations alone—"
"Not everyone needs five-star restaurants to be happy," Whiskey interrupts. "Some of us appreciate the simple things. Like waffles that don't cost thirty dollars."
"Quality has a price."
"So does pretension."
"I'm not pretentious."
"You alphabetize your spice rack."
"That's organization, not pretension."
"You have seven types of salt."
"They have different uses!"
I let them bicker, content to work on my breakfast and watch them.
There's something almost soothing about their dynamic now that I'm getting used to it.
The way Plague's pale blue eyes light up when he's arguing, how Whiskey leans in when he's making a point.
They're completely focused on each other, and neither of them seems to realize it.
Or maybe they do realize it, and that's the problem.
I decide to take pity on them. "So, what's the plan for today? We can't stay at the hotel forever."
The subject change works. They both look relieved to have something else to focus on.
"We should check in with Thane," Plague says, already pulling out his phone. "See how things are with Valek."
"Fuck that guy," Whiskey mutters. "Creepy bastard, prowling around our house like he owns it."
"He's our teammate now," Plague reminds him.
"Doesn't mean I have to like him."
My phone buzzes with a text. It's from Wraith. He's been texting every hour, usually just a simple question mark, making sure I'm okay. It's sweet and slightly overwhelming and makes my chest do this weird fluttery thing.
IVY
Still at breakfast. Your packmates are ridiculous.
WRAITH
normal then
I laugh, showing the message to Whiskey and Plague.
"He's not wrong," Whiskey admits.
"Speak for yourself," Plague says. "I'm perfectly reasonable."