Chapter 52 – THANE
Chapter
Fifty-Two
THANE
The morning light's coming through the shitty motel curtains, but I've been awake for hours.
Not that I've moved. Ivy's nestled between us like she belongs there, and disturbing her feels like some kind of sacrilege.
Her hair looks more auburn in this light, the natural copper shining through the dark dye, spreading across my arm where she's using me as a pillow.
Every soft exhale tickles against my chest through my shirt.
Wraith's been awake longer than me. I can tell by the way his massive frame stays perfectly still, too controlled to be actual sleep. His blue eyes track every shift of Ivy's breathing, every flutter of her eyelashes, like he's memorizing her in case she disappears.
The poor bastard's got it bad.
Then again, so do I.
I catch his eye over Ivy's sleeping form and sign carefully, keeping my movements small so we don't wake her. You sleep at all?
No, he signs back, and there's no apology in it. Just fact. His gaze drops back to Ivy's face, and something painfully soft crosses his features above that black mask.
Watching her sleep? I sign, unable to keep the slight tease out of my expression.
He doesn't even look embarrassed. Just nods once, his scarred hand ghosting over her hair without quite touching. Like he's afraid even that gentle contact might shatter whatever spell keeps her here with us.
You're stressed, I observe, reading the tension in his shoulders, the way his other hand keeps clenching and unclenching against his thigh.
Clinic, he signs, the movement sharp. And Mom.
Right. Today's the day he faces both his demons—the medical team that keeps him functional and the mother who can't remember him as anything but a monster. No wonder he didn't sleep.
Want to talk about the plan? I sign.
He shrugs, but it's the kind of shrug that means he needs to talk but doesn't want to admit it. Classic Wraith.
Clinic first? I suggest.
Yes. Get it out of the way. His signs are clipped. Then Mom.
Both in one day? I ask. I know he prefers it that way—ripping off the bandaid all at once—but it always leaves him fucked up afterward. Sometimes for weeks.
Another shrug. This one's heavier, weighted with years of doing this alone.
You know how you get after, I sign carefully. Depressed. Withdrawn.
So? The sign is almost aggressive in its dismissiveness.
So maybe you should bring Ivy, I suggest, watching his reaction carefully. To the care center, at least. Having someone there might—
His entire body goes rigid, and the look he gives me could peel paint. No.
Why not?
Not a good idea. His signs are getting smaller, tighter, like he's trying to physically compress himself despite his massive size.
The clinic? I push, because someone has to. She could wait in the car—
NO. This time the sign is so forceful I'm worried it might wake Ivy. But she just murmurs something in her sleep and burrows deeper into my chest.
Talk to me, I sign. What's really going on?
He stares at me for a long moment, those blue eyes full of something that looks way too much like self-loathing for my comfort. Then, slowly, painfully, he signs: Don't want her to see.
See what?
My face.
The admission hangs between us, heavy as lead. I knew this was coming—it always does with him—but it still makes my chest ache.
She's already seen part of it, I remind him gently. In the loft, you said—
Part. His sign is bitter. Accident. Mask slipped.
But not your whole face?
He shakes his head, and the movement is so full of shame and self-loathing I want to punch something. Preferably whoever made him believe he's something to be ashamed of.
The whole world. I’d have to punch out the whole fucking world.
Will you ever let her? I ask.
The question makes him freeze. I can see him wrestling with it, that internal war between hope and fear that's been raging in him since the day our parents took him in. His hands lift, fall, lift again.
No.
It's not defiance in that sign. It's defeat. Pure, crushing acceptance that this is how it'll always be.
Wraith—
She will scream. The signs are sharper, angrier. Everyone does.
I wish I could tell him I didn’t. God, I wish I could. But I did. I was a kid—we both were—but I did. And I know he remembers that day just as vividly as I do.
We were wrestling in the backyard, sparring and playing as alpha boys do. He was massive even back then, impossible to best once he got a hold of me. He had me pinned, laughing that growling huff of his as I struggled to get the upper hand, blue eyes bright above his equally blue bandana.
Give up? he'd signed with one hand.
Never.
I managed to wriggle free enough to grab a fistful of his hair. Just trying to get leverage, trying to flip him.
I didn't mean to tear his bandana.
I didn't mean to make the sound I made.
Just like everyone else, I thought he was a monster, too.
The guilt rears up, cold and fresh like a writhing snake uncoiling in my chest. I can still see it perfectly.
My brother frantically signing sorry, sorry, sorry with one shaking hand while clutching his face with the other, scrambling backwards into the shadows of the garage, blood dripping through his fingers from where he'd bitten his own tongue in panic.
I'd called after him to wait, but he was already gone.
He didn't come out for three days. Not even for food. Mom left plates outside his door that went untouched. When he finally emerged, he had a new mask, thicker, darker.
And he never let me see his face again.
Give her a chance, I sign finally, trying to put all the conviction I feel into the movements. She's not like the others. She hit Valek with a fucking fire extinguisher. She lived in maintenance tunnels. She's tough.
Not like me. At least not when I was a dumbass kid.
But he's already shutting down, that wall slamming into place behind his eyes. His hands drop to his sides, conversation over. I know that look. Could keep pushing, but it'd be like talking to a brick wall that occasionally growls if I’m lucky.
Ivy stirs between us, making a soft sound that's somewhere between a yawn and a purr. Her honeysuckle scent—still touched with the fading sweetness of heat—fills the space as she stretches like a cat, pressing against both of us.
"Morning," she mumbles, voice rough with sleep. Those ocean eyes blink open, unfocused and soft in the early light. "What time is it?"
"Early," I tell her, unable to resist brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You can go back to sleep."
"Mm, no." She pushes herself up on one elbow, looking between us with growing awareness. "You two have been talking about me."
It's not a question.
Fucking omega intuition.
"Talking about the day," I deflect. "Wraith has appointments."
She turns to him, and I watch his whole demeanor shift. Where he was tense and closed off thirty seconds ago, now he's... soft. Careful. His hands move in slow, simple signs she can follow.
You stay here?
"I could come," she offers immediately, and I don't miss the way hope flares in her eyes.
Wraith shakes his head, but it's gentler than his refusal to me. B-O-R-I-N-G… M-E-D-I-C-A-L… S-T-U-F-F.
He’s fingerspelling to her so she can keep up, I notice.
"What about your mom?" Ivy asks softly. Not for her own sake, I can tell. But to show support. "I could—"
Wraith's hands freeze mid-air. He looks at me, then back at her, and I can see the exact moment he crumbles. Because it's her asking.
Maybe. The sign is reluctant, pulled from him like a confession.
I'm shocked she got a maybe. I suggested the exact same thing five minutes ago and got shot down like I'd suggested bringing a marching band.
But for her? Maybe.
Of course. He's in love, even if he doesn't realize it yet.
"Okay." She doesn't push further, which shows she's learning how to read him. Instead, she leans into his space, resting her forehead against his chest. "Whatever you need."
The sound that escapes him—muffled by the mask but still audible—is pure fucking yearning. His massive arms come around her, careful as always, like she's made of spun glass despite the fact we all know she could probably kill an alpha with her bare hands if properly motivated.
And came close to it, apparently.
They stay like that for a moment before Wraith pulls back, signing quickly. Need to get ready.
"We'll order breakfast first," I offer. "That place down the street delivers, right?"
Not H-U-N-G-R-Y, he signs, already sliding out of bed. I know that’s a lie. We’re alphas. I’m already starving myself.
"Wraith—" Ivy starts, but he's already moving toward the bathroom, gathering his things with mechanical efficiency. Classic avoidance tactics.
She looks at me, worry clear in those ocean eyes. "Is he okay?"
"He will be," I lie, because what else can I say? That these visits destroy him every time? That he'll come back looking and acting like someone hollowed him out with a rusty spoon? "This is just... hard for him."
Wraith emerges from the bathroom, dressed in dark gray jeans and a black hoodie that makes him look even more intimidating than usual. So do the fingerless gloves that cover the scars on his hands. Scars from trying in vain to protect his face from acid, and scars from the surgeries that followed.
He pauses by the bed, his hands moving in quick, sharp signs meant just for me.
Take care of her.
Always, I sign back, meaning it.
He turns to Ivy, and for a moment they just look at each other. Then she's up on her knees on the bed, reaching for him. He bends down—way down—and she presses her forehead to his, her hands framing his masked face with a tenderness that makes my chest tight.
"Come back soon, okay?" she whispers.
He nods against her, pulls back slowly like it physically hurts to create distance between them, and then he's gone. The door clicks shut with a finality that seems to echo in the suddenly too-quiet room.
Ivy sits back on her heels, staring at the door. "He's not okay."