Chapter 54 – WRAITH
Chapter
Fifty-Four
WRAITH
My blacked-out SUV feels like a coffin on wheels, and I'm driving myself to my own fucking funeral.
Charleston feels painfully far from Ivy even though it's only twenty minutes from the motel in Cedarbrook. My hands grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles ache through the fingerless gloves.
Every mile marker makes my chest tighter.
Like fucking chains are around my ribs.
Gordon Health Center sits on the edge of Charleston's medical district, a modern building that tries too hard to look welcoming with its warm brick facade and carefully maintained landscaping.
I've been coming here since I was...
Fuck, I don't even remember anymore.
Feels like forever.
Feels like yesterday.
Feels like every visit strips another fucking layer of humanity from whatever's left of me.
The parking lot's half empty this early. I sit in the SUV for a full minute after turning off the engine, just breathing. In through my nose. Out through the mask. The familiar rhythm of panic trying to claw its way up my throat.
Get it over with.
The receptionist's face lights up the moment she sees me.
Margaret has been here almost as long as I have, her brown hair now streaked with silver, laugh lines deeper around her eyes.
"Belmont!" she says warmly. Like we're old friends instead of patient and staff who've crossed paths under shitty circumstances. "How have you been?"
I give her a slight nod, signing a simple Good even though she doesn't know sign language. Let alone my improvised version that's only half ASL.
They never call me Wraith, even though it's my legal name now. Changed it when I formally took Thane's family name. The Belmonts didn't adopt me—no one did, I aged out of the system—but Thane wanted to make our brotherhood official.
Maybe they think Wraith is a cruel name, as if using what my mother called me when she lost her mind is somehow crueler than pretending I'm still the boy who died.
But she's right.
That boy is dead.
Has been for years.
I'm just the thing wearing his corpse.
"Just have a seat and we'll call you back," Margaret continues, typing something into her computer. "Can you fill out a quick form for us in the meantime?" She slides the clipboard across the counter. Same forms as always. I could fill them out in my sleep.
Current medications: none.
Allergies: none.
Concerns: existing.
Concerns always fucking existing.
I fold myself into one of the chairs—they're never big enough—and try to make myself smaller. Impossible task when you're seven-foot-three and built like a fucking mountain.
A little girl, maybe five or six, sits on the floor near the toy corner, pushing wooden cars around a track. The burn scar on her arm is still pink, probably recent.
She's staring at me.
I lift my hand in an awkward wave.
She doesn't wave back. Just keeps staring.
My fingers drum against my knees.
Can't sit still.
The jitters crawl under my skin like insects, making every nerve ending fire wrong. I know this feeling too well. The anticipation is almost worse than the actual appointment.
"Belmont?"
The nursing assistant's voice cuts through the waiting room. She's young, maybe mid-twenties, with that eager nervousness that screams new hire. Her smile falters slightly when I stand to my full height.
There it is.
That involuntary step backward.
That widening of the eyes.
Behind me, I hear the kid asking her mom in the loudest whisper in the world if having a scar means she's going to turn into a giant monster, too.
She sounds excited.
I follow the assistant down the familiar hallway.
Same beige walls.
Same bright white lights that hurt my head.
Same feeling of walking to my execution.
Everything is the same.
So why am I so fucking freaked out?
"If you could just remove your mask for the photos," she says, voice professionally cheerful. "For your records."
This is the part I hate most.
My hands move reluctantly to the edge of the gaiter that covers my lower face. I freeze. Take a moment to make myself calm down. Vision narrows to pinpricks, gray and hazy at the edges. I pull the mask down, the movements agonizingly slow so I don’t shock the assistant with it all at once.
Her eyes widen—just for a second—before she catches herself. Professional smile snapping back into place like a rubber band, too tight and strained. But I saw it. Always see it. That flash of oh fuck before they remember they're supposed to be clinical about this.
"Just look straight ahead," she says, voice pitched slightly higher. "This won't take long."
The camera clicks feel like gunshots. Each flash makes me want to disappear into the floor. She takes them from multiple angles—front, both profiles, three-quarter views. Documenting the freak for their files.
"All done," she says, too bright, too fast.
I yank the mask back up immediately.
The fabric against my ruined face feels like armor, like I can breathe again. But the damage is done. That cold, sick feeling settles in my gut like I chugged ice water.
She leads me to the exam room. Still feels like I'm going to puke or pass out or both. I'm in a haze even as the assistant leaves me alone, the door closing with a soft click behind her like she thinks I'm going to go feral and attack her if she moves too fast.
I hear her whispering to someone just outside the door, her voice carrying despite her attempt at keeping it down.
“Holy fuck, he looks like Venom. All those sharp teeth… God… how is he even real? Do you think he did that on purpose?”
"Sarah." The older woman's tone is sharp. "That's a patient."
Their footsteps move away down the hall.
On purpose?
Why the fuck would I want this?
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I jolt. I glance at it, expecting it to be the group text popping off with Whiskey's usual fun facts no one ever subscribed to, but it's Ivy.
And she's texting me alone.
Not everyone.
Just me.
IVY
Hey. You okay?
I stare at the message—and the heart at the end—for a long time, letting it bring me back to myself before typing back. I delete my reply over and over, not sure what to say.
Don't want to lie.
But don't want her to worry either.
Guess it wouldn't be a lie if I said yes.
Because of her, I am okay. Now, at least.
WRAITH
hi. yeah.
Three dots appear immediately.
IVY
Want me to keep texting you? It might help distract you.
WRAITH
please
IVY
Okay
So Thane ordered breakfast and got literally everything on the menu. I think he's stress-eating. He needs to calm down or he’s going to have whiter hair than Valek. Haha
A soft huff-growl of a laugh escapes my ruined throat.
WRAITH
yeah
IVY
How much longer do you have to wait?
WRAITH
don’t know
She keeps texting despite my apparent inability to reply with more than a few words—communication wouldn't be my strong point even if I weren't fucking mute—telling me about everything, how they found an even cheesier movie we should watch together later, about Thane's mother hen tendencies, about how the motel coffee tastes like it was filtered through a gym sock.
Each message makes the knot in my chest loosen a fraction.
A knock at the door.
My shoulders lock right up again.
WRAITH
doctor here
IVY
Okay. I'll be right here when you're done.
WRAITH
thanks
Thanks being a big fucking understatement, even with the heart emoji she seems to like.
I pocket my phone and manage a short growl to let Dr. Jackson know she can enter. At least she's a good doctor. Always professional, always quick and efficient and kind.
The door opens and…
It's not Dr. Jackson.
Some guy in his fifties walks in, graying hair, weathered face, white coat with "BOYD" embroidered on the pocket.
No.
Fuck no.
Not a new doctor.
My entire body goes rigid. The panic that's been simmering under my skin explodes into full-blown fight or flight. My chest tightens like someone's squeezing my lungs in a vise.
"Mr. Belmont?" Dr. Boyd says, already reaching for gloves. "I'll be your doctor today. I'm filling in for Dr. Jackson for the next month—"
Nope.
I'm up and moving before he can finish the sentence. My massive frame barely fits through the doorway with him still partially in it as I barrel past him. He makes some startled noise behind me, but I don't stop.
The nursing assistant tries to say something as I storm past her station, but the blood is rushing in my ears too loud to hear anything but my own panicked heartbeat. Margaret calls after me from the reception desk, but I'm already pushing through the doors.
The cold morning air hits my face even through the mask.
But it doesn't help.
Nothing helps.
My hands shake so bad I drop my keys twice before managing to unlock the SUV with a snarl. I practically fall into the driver's seat, slamming the door behind me like it can keep the panic outside.
I sit there hyperventilating, clutching the steering wheel hard enough to make it creak. Feel likes I'm suffocating through the fucking mask. My vision grays at the edges, spots dancing in front of my eyes.
Breathe, you fucking idiot. Breathe.
I can't do this.
I can't.
The drive back to the motel is a blur.
I don't remember most of it, just the mechanical motions of driving. Park. Engine off. Stare at the door that stands between Ivy and me for a full minute.
When the curtain moves and I see her peek out at the SUV, her brow furrowed in worry, I force myself to move.
The door opens before I even knock.
Ivy's there, already reaching for me.
"You're back early," she says, pulling me inside. I think she shut the door. Maybe I did. Who fucking knows. "What happened? Are you okay?"
"Wraith?" Thane's on his feet immediately, breakfast forgotten on the small table. "Don't pass out on me, brother."
Ivy's grip on my arm tightens. "Sit down."
Yeah.
Sit down.
I need to sit down.
My legs feel like they're going to give out.