Whiskey #3
"Definitely. That's a lady in love," I reassure him, making a heart with my hands before remembering the sign's like rocker devil horns with the thumb sticking out. The fingerspelled letters for I, L, and Y all together. "Shit, man, I'm jealous as fuck. What you have is special. Really special."
Wraith stares at me like I've grown a second head. But those intense blue eyes soften, and for a moment, he just looks like a normal dude who’s struggling and not the untouchable, aggressive feral alpha I know out on the rink.
The one who murdered Hogzilla in cold blood.
Guess I can forgive him.
Thank you, he signs, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly like he’s actually smiling at me beneath the mask. Hell, maybe it is. Maybe he’s just hiding a killer smile under there.
I don't know what to say to that. So I do the only thing I can think of. I reach out and move to clap his shoulder. Firm. Steady. The way Marines do when words aren't enough. A bro version of a hug.
Wraith misreads everything.
Those massive arms wrap around me before my hand even makes contact, pulling me into what might be the most awkward hug in the history of hugs. His chest slams into mine with enough force to knock the air from my lungs, and suddenly I'm being squeezed by seven-plus feet of solid muscle and bone.
Holy fucking shit.
This is what it feels like to be hugged by a fucking tiger.
My ribs creak in protest. My already injured shoulder screams. My extra padding on my gut crushes my lungs. A sound rumbles through his chest against mine. Part growl, part purr, vibrating through my entire body.
He's… purring.
This massive feral alpha is purring like an overgrown house cat.
I pat his back a few times, that solid thump-thump-thump that says "we're good, brother" without words. Wraith pulls back, then stares awkwardly at me before his eyes flick back to Ivy and Plague. They're staring, too, dead silent.
"Bro talk," I say to them, grinning.
Plague looks slightly jealous. Good. Now he knows how the fuck I felt when he abandoned me to waste away alone in our row on the damn plane so he could play ponies and princesses with Valek.
That's a way better name than chess.
When we settle back on the couch—me squished between Plague and the armrest, Wraith taking up position near Ivy like a guardian statue who's definitely a fraction as stressed out as he was before—the atmosphere feels different. Lighter, somehow, despite everything.
"So," Ivy says from her seat on the edge of the bed, pulling her knees up to her chest. "What's the plan for next week? The game against the Demons."
The mood shifts again. Can't seem to avoid Wade's shadow for long.
"I'm not sure about leaving you here alone," I admit. "Would you be cool with staying at the arena again? Where you were hiding before?"
"I could watch on the security cameras," she muses. "But I don't love the idea of being alone in the tunnels, either. This is something I've actually been thinking about. I was wondering… maybe I could wear a mask myself? The winter types a lot of the fans have."
Wraith's brow furrows in worry. He signs something to her that I don't catch. Okay, maybe he was right to fingerspell to me. Apparently, I need another fifty or sixty hours of YouTubes and TikToks.
"I'd feel safest hiding in plain sight," she explains.
"I could redye my roots a darker brown and blend in with the audience.
You could keep an eye on me that way. Now that I'm out of heat, my scent shouldn't bleed through suppressants.
It feels like the safest plan. But you have to promise me something. "
"Anything," Plague says immediately.
"You play the game," she says, and there's steel under the softness.
"No targeting Wade. You win on the scoreboard, not with your fists.
As of right now, unless Valek has said something to him, there's no reason for him to suspect anything.
Don't give him a reason, no matter how hard it is. Promise me."
Plague lets out a long, deep sigh. "I promise."
"Promise. Scout's honor," I say, smacking my chest for emphasis even though everything in me wants to punch Wade in the fucking mouth until he's shitting teeth. "I don't like it, but it isn't my call, wildcat."
Ivy gives me one of those little smiles that makes me putty in her hands. "You don't have to like it. You just have to do it."
"We will," Plague murmurs.
Wraith signs something, his movements sharp and angry.
Whatever he's saying, it makes Ivy sigh. "I know. But he's not worth you ending up in prison." She looks at me and Plague. "And that goes for you, too. And Thane. All of you."
I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. "All of us, huh? You like us, too, wildcat? Not just Wraith?" I ask, jerking my head to him with an even wider grin. He blinks at me, then at her like we're all nuts.
Ivy rolls her eyes—she does it as much as Plague does—but she's grinning, too. "We'll see," she says, curling up in the half-made nest on the bed as there's a tap at the window. Despite everything, she doesn't jump. Just glances up as Wraith lumbers over to the window to see who it is.
It's just Thane, his hair plastered to his face from the rain and dripping all over the floorboards. He heads straight for Ivy like she's got him on a fishing line and she's reeling him in, already telling her how Valek's in his room and everything seems okay for now.
This is nice as fuck.
Plague's finally relaxed enough that his spine isn't trying to fuse with his skull. Wraith's still a little tense, but way less than his baseline. Thane's chatting with Ivy, his usual stuffy seriousness apparently left out in the rain.
We're all just hanging out up in Wraith's loft like it's the new best spot in the house.
And I'm...
I'm home.
Not just the pack house, and not my room downstairs with its carefully organized chaos and retro motorcycle posters covering the walls to look like the one I grew up in and left behind.
This. Right here. These people.
This is home.