Chapter 47 – IVY #2
"You're smiling at your phone like a lovesick teenager," Whiskey observes as I text Wraith back.
"Shut up," I grumble.
But there's some truth to that. It may not be love, but it is something I haven't felt in a long time. The strange tugging in my chest of hope. Of hoping there's a chance that maybe, despite everything, things could work out. That I could have this. Them. A scent-matched pack.
Yep. Being stuck in the tunnels for so long definitely fried my brain cells. My inner omega is already trying to warm up to these alphas while simultaneously kind of wanting to bite them every time they get too close.
Whiskey suddenly clears his throat, shifting awkwardly in his seat. "Hey, uh... Ivy? Can I ask you something?"
The change in his tone—from playful to uncertain—immediately puts me on alert. "What?"
"It's about Wraith." He exchanges a quick glance with Plague, and something cold slides down my spine. "Do you... I mean, has he told you about his... issues?"
My shoulders tense immediately. "Issues? What kind of issues?"
"Not like that," Plague says quickly, shooting Whiskey a warning look. "We're not trying to interfere. We just want to make sure you know what you're getting into."
"I know he can't speak," I say, my voice coming out sharper than intended. "And I know he's scarred. Is that what you mean by 'issues'?"
Whiskey winces, running a hand through his hair. "It's just... he's really, uh... intense looking."
The defensive anger that surges through me is immediate and hot. "Are you seriously sitting here telling me I should care about how he looks? You think I'm shallow?"
"No!" Whiskey's eyes go wide, hands up in surrender. "That's not what I meant at all." He rakes a hand through his hair, mussing it. "Shit, I'm fucking this up."
"What Whiskey is trying and failing to say," Plague interjects, his voice careful and measured, "is that Wraith has been hurt before. Badly. By people's reactions to his appearance. We just want to make sure that won't happen with you."
The anger drains out of me as quickly as it came, replaced by something softer. They're not warning me away from Wraith, they're protecting him.
"I don't care what he looks like," I say quietly but firmly. "I care that he brought me supplies when I was sick. That he protected me. That he holds me like I'm something precious instead of something to possess. His scars don't matter to me."
Whiskey's expression softens, but there's still uncertainty there. "It's just... he's a little more than scarred, you know?"
Plague's elbow connects with Whiskey's lower ribs hard enough to make him grunt. "That's not our story to tell," Plague says sharply.
"I know," Whiskey wheezes, rubbing his side. "I'm just—"
"You're just being a dumbass," Plague cuts him off. Then he turns to me, his pale eyes serious. "We're not trying to scare you away from him. The opposite, actually. Wraith deserves someone who sees him for who he is, not what he looks like."
"I'm not going to hurt him," I say, meeting both their gazes steadily. "I'm not exactly the type of omega that gets the vapors and flings herself onto the floor over a spider." I laugh a little. "We're not all that fragile."
"We don't think you are," Plague says quickly, in full damage control mode now. He might think Whiskey doesn't have a way with words, but he isn't exactly eloquent when he's panicking, either.
Whiskey nods, apparently satisfied. "Cool. Sorry for being weird about it. It's just... Wraith doesn't let people in. Ever. And seeing him with you, it's like watching a completely different person. In a good way," he adds quickly. "A really good way. I've never seen him happy before."
That makes my chest ache in a way I'm not prepared for. The idea that Wraith—my gentle, protective giant who brings me soup and holds me through nightmares—hasn't been happy. That I might be changing that.
"Can we talk about something else?" I ask, suddenly feeling exposed under their scrutiny. "This is getting way too heavy for breakfast conversation."
"Thank fuck," Whiskey says, returning to his eggs with renewed enthusiasm. "I thought we were gonna have to have actual feelings and shit."
"You? Have feelings?" Plague's tone is dry as dust. "I'd need scientific proof of that phenomenon."
"I have plenty of feelings. I feel hungry. I feel tired. I feel like you're an asshole."
"Those aren't feelings, they're states of being."
"Your face is a state of being."
"That doesn't even make sense."
And just like that, we're back to normal. Or whatever passes for normal with these two. The tension from moments before dissolves as they fall back into their familiar pattern of bickering, and I find myself relaxing again.
But I can't stop thinking about what they said. About Wraith being "more than scarred." About how no one else has ever accepted him. It makes me want to get back to him even more, to show him that whatever he looks like under that mask, it doesn't change how I feel about him.
Because the truth is, I'm already falling in love with him. With his gentle touches and protective presence. With the way he signs my name like it's something beautiful. With how he makes me feel safe in a world that's been nothing but dangerous for so long.
Nothing else matters. Not the scarring, no matter how bad it is beneath his mask. Not the fact he’s mute, or even more feral than I am.
"We should probably head back soon," Plague says, checking his watch. "It's been a few hours."
"Yeah," I agree, though part of me doesn't want this to end. This bubble of normalcy we've created in a shitty diner at the ass crack of dawn.
Whiskey signals for the check, and Betty appears with it immediately. He throws down cash before Plague can object, adding a generous tip.
"I can pay for my own breakfast," I say.
"Nope." Whiskey stands, stretching. "Pack takes care of pack."
The casual way he includes me in that makes my throat tight. "Yeah, well, I'm not pack yet," I mutter.
"Yet?" Whiskey echoes, clearly latching onto that.
I sigh. "I might never be. I don't know right now. I have a lot to think about."
"A scent match does mean something," Whiskey points out.
"And I'll need extra time to think about what it means if you bug me about it," I remind him, but the fact he's giving me overgrown golden retriever eyes makes me less annoyed than I would be if he were virtually anyone else.
"Got it. No bugging," he promises, backing off immediately with palms raised in a placating gesture.
We file out of the diner into the morning air. The sun's properly up now, painting everything gold. I'm not usually the city type, but it is pretty in the morning, and it's waking up around us. More cars on the road, more people on the sidewalks.
"We should take different routes back," Plague says, ever practical.
"Or," Whiskey counters, "we could act like regular people walking back from breakfast."
"Nothing about us is regular at all."
"Speak for yourself. I'm regular as fuck."
And they're off to the races again. I let their voices wash over me, a weird kind of white noise that's become oddly comforting.
A few days ago, I would've been terrified to be out in public with two alphas.
Now I'm sandwiched between them on a city sidewalk, and the only thing I'm worried about is whether they'll actually murder each other before we get back to the hotel.
Progress, I guess.
I still don't know what I'm going to do about these alphas being my scent matches. But when my phone buzzes in my pocket and my heart does that stupid fluttery thing again because I know it's Wraith, I do know one thing.
Whatever else happens with this pack, with these scent matches that feel too good to be true, I'm going back to him. He's become my anchor in ways I'm not ready to admit, even to myself.
But first, I need time to think. To figure out what I want without the influence of heat hormones or the overwhelming presence of alphas who smell like home.
Because that's the problem, isn't it? They all smell like home. And the last time something felt like home, it turned into a prison.
I'm not ready to risk that again.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
But as I walk between Whiskey and Plague, listening to them argue like it's their love language, I let myself imagine—just for a moment—what it might be like if I could trust this.
If I could have this.