Chapter 55 – IVY
Chapter
Fifty-Five
IVY
Cherry blossoms fall around us like we're in some kind of fairy tale, not standing outside a memory care facility where Wraith is about to face his demons. But regardless of where we are, there's something about the way the pink petals catch in his dark hair that makes my heart squeeze.
He's signing something, but the movements are hesitant and choppy, like what he's telling me is going to cost him everything.
W-A-N-T... Y-O-U... T-O... B-E... M-Y...
He stops. His blue eyes above the mask are swimming with so much fear and hope that I can barely breathe. His hand pauses in the air between us before dropping to his side. I want to reach for him, to tell him he doesn't have to be afraid, but I know he needs to do this his way.
His hand rises again.
G-I-R-L.
My heart soars but the anxiety in his gaze and posture fucking destroys me. Like he thinks there's any universe where I'd say no. Like there's any chance I wouldn't want him.
"Yes," I say immediately so he doesn't torture himself waiting. "Absolutely yes."
The relief that washes over him is so intense I feel it in my own chest. His broad shoulders drop, and the breath he's been holding escapes in a rush that I can hear even through his mask.
I rise up on my tiptoes because even leaning forward to sign to me, he's still a freaking giant.
I expect to kiss his forehead or maybe his nose through the mask, but something pulls me to press my lips against the fabric covering his mouth instead.
The gaiter is soft and worn, and I can feel the warmth of his breath through it, quick and unsteady like he's forgotten how to breathe properly.
His hands find my waist, so gentle despite their size. Those scarred, powerful hands that could do so much damage hold me like I'm made of spun glass. He pulls me closer, carefully, and lifts me against him until my feet leave the ground and our foreheads touch.
Gods, this feeling. This moment. After months of running, of hiding, of being afraid of every shadow…
In this alpha’s arms, I feel like I'm home.
The automatic doors of the facility whoosh open, shattering our bubble.
Reality crashes back in hard. I feel every muscle in Wraith's body go rigid as he straightens to his full height and gently sets me back on my feet.
The soft alpha who just asked me to be his girl vanishes, replaced by the silent giant everyone fears.
But I know better.
I squeeze his hand. "It's okay," I whisper. “I’m right here with you.”
He cups my face in one massive palm, rough thumb brushing over my cheekbone with impossible gentleness, then taps his chin with his other hand.
Thank you.
The receptionist barely looks at me while Wraith handles the check-in.
When she asks for his ID, I catch the way he hesitates, glancing at me.
I immediately turn to study the fish tank in the corner, pretending to be fascinated by the obviously fake coral.
I understand what he’s worried about without him having to ask.
He doesn't want me to see the picture on his license.
"I'll need to see your ID too, miss."
My blood turns to ice as I look up. She doesn't look like the typical hockey fan—she has the stern, droopy face of someone who'd be bored on a roller coaster, even if she looks pale and visibly shaken after seeing Wraith’s ID, which lights fire in my veins—but my instincts still flare up with instinctive danger alarms. My hand moves toward my pocket, but Wraith's already scribbling on the notepad.
She's with me. He pauses, then writes, My girlfriend.
The word sits there on the paper, bold and certain, and warmth blooms in my chest despite my anxiety.
"Oh, that's fine then. If she’s with an alpha, she doesn't need separate clearance. Just don't let her wander off on her own."
Wraith's eyes narrow at the casual discrimination, but when his flinty eyes flick to me and I give him a subtle shake of my head that says don't take the bait, he heaves a sigh of unmasked irritation and rolls his eyes so hard I can practically hear it.
The receptionist glares after him, lips pursed, as Wraith joins me by the hall.
"Ready?" I ask him, taking his hand again.
He just shrugs. I can tell he's already numbing out.
Room 63 is at the end of the hall, and Wraith's steps get slower with every door we pass. Room 57, 59, 61... By the time we hit 63, marked with a placard that reads Claire Marsh, he's completely frozen. Just standing there like someone hit pause on him mid-stride.
His breathing goes shallow that makes me think of when I used to hide in closets, trying not to make any sound at all.
Like if he breathes too loud, something terrible will happen.
The bouquet of flowers in his hand are trembling—actually trembling—and this is a man who takes hockey pucks to the face without flinching.
Fuck.
I want to tell him we should bail. That whoever's behind that door doesn't deserve to see him if it makes him look like he's about to face a firing squad.
But I also know that look in his eyes. It's the same one I had every time I went back to people I loved, hoping maybe this time would be different.
Hope is such a bitch sometimes.
"We doing this?" I ask, keeping my voice soft.
He looks down at me and I can see him pulling himself together, piece by piece. Straightening his spine, squaring those massive shoulders. Putting on armor that's got nothing to do with hockey gear. Then he nods once, sharp and decisive, like he's psyching himself up to take a hit.
He raises his hand and taps his knuckles three times against the door.
"Come in!"
The voice from inside is bright, almost cheerful.
Wraith pushes the door open like it weighs a thousand pounds.
The woman in the chair is smaller than I imagined, drowning in a purple and pink striped sweater that's been washed so many times it's gone soft and shapeless. Her gray-brown hair is neatly braided. When she sees me, her whole face transforms with genuine warmth.
"Are you the new girl?" she asks.
But then her gaze slides to Wraith, and I watch that warmth die like someone snuffed out a candle. She shrinks back into her chair, fingers going white where they grip the armrests.
"Oh. It's you."
The venom in those two words makes my hands clench into fists. This is your son, I want to scream. Your son who drove hours to see you, who brings you flowers, who pays for this nice facility so you're comfortable while you crush his spirit over and over again.
Sure, she isn't exactly culpable anymore, but I've never had trouble reading between the lines. When Thane told me what he could about Wraith's past, I put two and two together just fine. The shit she's put Wraith through goes way, way back.
But Wraith just moves to the dresser, setting down the vase with movements so careful they might as well be choreographed. He's trying not to exist too loudly in this space. Trying not to be too real, too present, too much of anything that might set her off.
"What beautiful flowers!" I inject as much warmth into my voice as I can manage, settling into the visitor's chair like I belong here. "I'm Ivy. It's so nice to meet you, Mrs. Marsh."
"Marsh?" Confusion flickers across her face. "No, dear, it's Winter. Claire Winter. Though I was born Claire Kohler before I married Grant."
She uses her first husband's name. Not her second's. My mind files that away—she's erased Wraith's stepfather from her history.
That's... interesting. And telling.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Winter. I love your sweater. Purple really suits you.”
"Thank you. My son gave it to me when he was just a boy." She sighs wistfully. "He always knew my favorite colors."
Behind her, Wraith arranges the roses with the kind of focused intensity that tells me this is how he copes. Something to do with his hands while his mother talks about him like he's not even there. Like he's not even alive.
"He looked just like his father," Claire continues, lost in her memories. "Grant died when our boy was so young. Overseas. IED." She pronounces each letter carefully. "But our son grew up to look exactly like him. Sometimes I'd look at him and forget..."
"He must have been handsome," I manage. "Your husband."
Wraith glances at me over his shoulder, brow furrowed in apparent confusion that I'm implying he's handsome, as if he finds that completely insane. He is, though. He's a beautiful alpha regardless of what's beneath the mask.
The laugh that bubbles out of her catches me off guard—so genuine and warm that for a moment I can see who she must have been before tragedy broke her mind.
"Oh, he was. Tall, strong, those bright blue eyes that could see right through you, the brightest smile. Our son had that same smile, those same eyes."
He still does. They're right there, watching you with a love you don't deserve, I think, but I manage to bite the words back.
"What's a nice girl like you doing here, traipsing around with that thing?"
The casual cruelty of her sudden question steals my breath to the point all I can do is gape at her. That thing. She just called her son—her beautiful, gentle son—that thing.
I dig my nails into my palms hard enough to leave marks, but I keep my voice even. Pleasant, even. Because losing my shit won't help Wraith, and he needs me to be strong right now.
"He brought me to meet you. He said you like having visitors," I manage to lie.
"Did he now?" She gives Wraith a suspicious look that's more disgusted than fearful. "It doesn't talk."
"There are other ways to talk than speaking. He," I say carefully, emphasizing that Wraith is not an it, "writes notes, and he signs. Would you like to try sometime?"
The revulsion that crosses her face tells me everything. She doesn't see him as her son who adapted to his disability. She really does see him as inhuman.
"No."
Just no. Flat and final.
"He's very kind," I try. "He brought you these beautiful flowers and—"