23. Ivy
Ivy
My lips are still buzzing when I step back into the living room.
The what the fuck did I just do kind of buzzing. The kind that makes me want to press my fingers to my mouth and check if the evidence is as obvious as it feels.
Probably is.
Definitely is.
Shit.
The pack is scattered around the room like debris after a storm.
Wraith's sprawled across the couch, one massive arm draped over his bandaged face, his chest rising and falling with the slow rhythm of someone who's running on fumes.
Thane hovers near the window, looking like he hasn't slept in about six years.
Whiskey's banging around in the kitchen like he usually does when he's stressed.
I can hear him opening and closing cabinet doors, muttering something about protein bars.
Plague sits in the armchair, phone in hand, scrolling through something he's clearly not reading. His pale eyes keep flicking toward the hallway I just emerged from.
Toward me.
I gulp.
Wraith's arm shifts. Those blue eyes crack open, finding me immediately. Okay? he manages to sign. Even that one small movement seems to sap what little energy he has left.
"Fine." The word comes out too fast. "I’m fine. We just talked."
Nobody looks convinced. Plague's eyebrow arches and Whiskey's head pokes out from the kitchen doorway, a protein bar halfway to his mouth.
"Talked," he repeats flatly. "For ten minutes. Alone. In his room."
"Five minutes," I correct. "And yes. Talked."
Wraith is scenting the air. I can see his nostrils flaring slightly beneath the bandages, his brow furrowing as he tries to parse what he's picking up.
But the antiseptic is too strong. The gauze is too fresh. Whatever trace of Valek might be clinging to my skin is literally buried.
He can't tell.
Hopefully.
I cross the room to him before anyone can ask more questions. His eyes track me the whole way, that exhausted blue gaze following my movements like I'm the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
"Hey," I say softly, settling on the edge of the couch near his hip. "How are you feeling?"
S-H-I-T, he fingerspells, the movement sluggish. T-I-R-E-D.
"I know," I murmur. "And… you don't need to fingerspell. I'm getting better. Although I might not know the sign for shit."
He blows a puff of air through his nose.
I reach out to touch his hair, then hesitate. "Can I?"
He gives a small nod.
My fingers sink into the dark strands, still tacky with dried blood in places. He lets out a low rumble and his eyes flutter closed.
"You need to get out of these clothes," I tell him. "You're covered in blood."
Another sluggish nod. But he doesn't move.
"Wraith."
Nothing.
"Can you sit up for me?"
His eyes open again. He stares at me for a long moment, then makes a visible effort to push himself upright. His arms shake. His jaw clenches. He gets about halfway before he sags back down with a frustrated growl.
"Okay." I stand, already calculating. "Okay, we'll do this the hard way."
I grab the hem of his bloodied jersey and start working it up his torso. He lifts his arms when I prompt him, lets me maneuver the material over his head, his movements as cooperative as a half-conscious bear.
The undershirt comes next. More blood here, soaked through in patches. Some of it his, some of it Wade's. The sight of it makes my stomach twist.
"Lift."
He lifts.
The shirt comes off and he slumps against the couch cushions, his massive chest rising and falling with exhausted breaths and his huge hands resting in his lap. The scars webbing down his throat and chest look softer in the warm lamplight.
"Pants?" I ask.
Leave them, he signs, and I'm relieved I catch that. Too tired.
Fair enough.
Whiskey appears in the doorway again, wearing nothing but sweatpants that hang low on his hips, and he's carrying a first aid kit.
"Brought reinforcements," he announces, then stops short when he sees Wraith. "Damn, big guy. You look like shit."
Wraith's middle finger rises with impressive coordination for someone who couldn't sit up thirty seconds ago.
Whiskey grins. "There he is. Thought we lost you for a minute."
He crosses to the couch and crouches beside it, his usual manic energy dialed down to something gentler. His hand hovers over Wraith's shoulder before making contact—a careful touch, checking in.
"You good?" Whiskey asks quietly. "For real?"
Wraith's eyes meet his. Something passes between them that I can't quite read.
Will be, Wraith signs finally.
Whiskey nods like that's enough. "Good. Because I was really hoping I wouldn't have to drag your giant ass up to the loft tonight. My shoulder's still fucked from Canada."
"About that," I say, the idea forming as I speak. "Maybe we should just... stay down here?”
The room goes quiet.
Thane stops his pacing near the window. Plague's thumb freezes mid-scroll. Whiskey's eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline.
Wraith's eyes find mine, and he tilts his head with a confused rumble.
"I mean," I continue, suddenly aware of how many alphas are staring at me, "the couch is right here. The floor's big enough. And I don't think Wraith can make it up the fire escape right now anyway."
More silence.
But Valek can reach you down here, they’re all thinking. I can tell. It’s written all over their faces.
I don’t blame them. I just dropped a Valek-shaped bomb on them, what, an hour ago? Maybe even less. They have no idea if Valek really is my scent match or not.
After that kiss?
I’m pretty damn sure he is.
Then Thane exhales—a long, tired sound that carries the weight of the entire night. "Yeah. Okay."
"Dibs on the good pillows," Whiskey announces immediately, already moving toward the hall closet.
Plague mutters something under his breath that sounds like "the floor is unsanitary and the good pillows will be fucking ruined" but doesn't get up to leave or stop Whiskey from dumping everything on the floor.
"I'll get blankets," I say, already moving. "Whiskey, you can’t have all the pillows. Plague, stop looking at Whiskey like you’re going to kill him. Thane—" I glance back at him. "Maybe lock the front door? Just in case."
He's already moving to do it.
This is good. This is normal. This is me doing what I'm good at. Taking care of people, building something safe out of chaos, making a nest out of nothing.
The second hall closet yields a surprising bounty. Blankets I didn't know existed, pillows stuffed in the back corner, a comforter that smells like it's been in storage for approximately forever. I haul it all out, arms full, and nearly collide with Whiskey coming from the other direction.
The living room floor is bigger than I expected once we push the coffee table aside.
I start laying out blankets, overlapping them to create a padded surface, adding pillows in strategic locations.
Whiskey dumps his own haul nearby—three pillows, a throw blanket, and three gigantic floppy stuffed sharks.
"IKEA," he says when he catches me staring at them, as if that makes it make sense.
I don't ask.
Plague has migrated from the armchair to the floor near the edge of the blanket pile, his back against the couch. He looks up when Thane comes back from locking up and I hear them speaking quietly to each other, but I don’t catch what they’re saying.
Except “Valek.”
I catch that.
And Thane isn’t smooth enough when it comes to being sneaky—actually, he isn’t smooth period, although he seems to think he is, which is cute—to keep himself from looking directly at me when he says the name.
Plague shoots him a “be less obvious” glare, which is even more obvious.
I bite my lip so I don’t laugh. Whiskey may be the pack’s biggest himbo, but Thane isn’t far behind him. And Plague would have a meltdown if he realized it, but he’s kind of a himbo in his own right.
Just a pretty himbo.
Wraith is still on the couch, watching me through half-lidded eyes. He hasn't moved since I took off his shirt, but his gaze follows me around the room like I'm the only thing worth looking at. Every time I pass close to him, his hand twitches like he wants to reach out but doesn't have the energy.
"Almost done," I tell him softly, brushing my fingers against his arm. "Then you can sleep."
A low rumble in his chest. A thanks, I think.
I finish the nest with a final flourish. Pillows arranged, blankets layered, enough space for five alphas and one omega if everyone gets creative with their limbs. It's not pretty. It's not Instagram-worthy. But it's mine, and it's safe, and right now that's all that matters.
"Okay." I straighten up, wiping my palms on my borrowed sweatpants. "Wraith, can you make it to the floor?"
He stares at me.
Maybe, he signs.
"I'll take that as a yes." I move to his side, sliding my arm around his waist—or as much of his waist as I can reach, given that he's approximately the size of a small mountain. "Come on. I've got you."
I definitely don’t have him. Wraith is three times my size. But he lets me guide him. That's how I know he's truly exhausted. Wraith never lets anyone guide him anywhere. He's always the one leading, the one protecting, the one positioning himself between me and any potential threat.
But right now he's leaning on me, his weight heavy against my side, and he goes where I take him without protest.
I half-drag, half-coax him onto the blankets as gently as I can, and he goes down like a puppet with cut strings, his massive frame collapsing into the padding with a soft grunt.
"There you go," I murmur, lifting his head and shoulders into my lap. He’s dead weight now and I almost pop my shoulders out of their joints lifting even that much of him. "Just rest."
His hand finds mine. Stay, he signs with his other hand, those tired blue eyes flicking up to mine.
“I'm not going anywhere,” I promise him.