Ivy
I'm going to fucking puke.
Not metaphorically. Actually, physically going to lean over and vomit on these very expensive, very uncomfortable shoes I forced my feet into because sneakers send "the wrong message."
As if the right message isn't please don't destroy my family.
The entire pack—myself included—is at a long table at the front of the room, each of us seated in front of a name placard.
All except for Wraith.
He's standing behind the table, slightly to one side, arms crossed over his chest, burning blue eyes fixed on the back wall above the press corps' heads. The same dark scarf Plague gave him is wrapped around his lower face, covering the bandages beneath.
He looks uncharacteristically intense, at least by my standards because I almost always only see the gentle side of him, and the journalists keep sneaking glances at him the way you'd keep checking the position of a large predator you're sharing a room with.
Which, to be fair, is exactly what he is.
The cameras are already rolling. Phones up. Recorders set on the edge of the press table. The journalists are buzzing.
Sharks smelling blood in the water.
I press my palms flat against my thighs under the table, trying to keep them from shaking. My statement is loaded on the tablet in front of me. Every word I agonized over, every sentence I rewrote while Wraith slept against my back and Valek silently refilled my coffee.
"Breathe," Valek murmurs from the seat beside me, low enough that the microphones won't catch it.
"I am breathing."
"You're hyperventilating."
"Fuck off."
"There she is."
I almost laugh. The sound catches in my throat and comes out as something closer to a hiccup. Valek's silver eyes flick to mine, and the corner of his mouth curves slightly.
"If it helps," he whispers, leaning fractionally closer so his words brush my ear, "imagine them all in their underwear."
"That's terrible advice."
"Is it? I've been told Americans find it soothing."
"Who told you that?"
"Whiskey."
"Well. Don't listen to Whiskey."
Valek's lip twitches again. "Alternatively, imagine Wade Kelly's face when his kneecap separated from his femur. I find that image deeply calming."
"You're a psychopath."
"So I've been told. But you're not shaking anymore."
He's right. My hands have gone still in my lap without me noticing.
Bastard.
Eliza steps to the podium first, flanked by Ray and Daphne. She delivers the opening remarks quickly and professionally. Context. Timeline. The league's position. The facts of the altercation as verified by footage.
She yields the floor to Plague.
He stands, adjusts the microphone with gloved fingers, and reads his statement without inflection. He recounts the game, the escalation, Wade attacking Wraith. Timelines to the second because that's who Plague is.
Then, near the end, his voice changes. Just enough that I notice and the journalists lean forward.
"Wraith Belmont is my packmate. The force he used was proportional to the threat posed to our beloved mate. He acted in love. I have treated his injuries personally, and I can confirm the damage Wade Kelly inflicted on his face was severe enough to split existing scar tissue to the bone."
His eyes flick to Valek.
"Valek was merely protecting the pack."
He sits down, hands folded in his lap.
Pens start scratching. Otherwise, the room is silent.
Okay, so we're all making changes to our statements. Plague's is slightly different. I'm already side-eyeing Whiskey, who's next.
Whiskey stands like he's approaching a podium at a comedy club, not a press conference, and somehow his body language alone lowers the tension in the room. His statement has been edited within an inch of its life by Plague, but the opening line survived every draft.
"Yo, it's your boy Whiskey."
Oh. It's worse now.
A few journalists actually laugh.
He reads the rest with the cadence of someone who's rehearsed it exactly once in the shower and is winging the parts he forgot. The facts are there. The timeline is there. The unshakeable conviction that his pack did nothing wrong is there, dripping from every word.
"Wade Kelly attacked my packmate on the ice and verbally threatened our omega. We kicked his fuckin' ass. We'd do it again. Next question." He grins, catches himself, and adds, "Oh wait, questions are after. My bad."
Thane puts his face in his hands.
Valek goes next.
He doesn't adjust the microphone. Just leans forward slightly, silver eyes sweeping the press corps.
"Ivy Byrne is my scent match and my mate. Wade Kelly had already attacked another member of the Ghosts' pack, and he was escalating aggression and threats toward our omega. I acted in her defense."
He leans back.
The silence that follows is different from the silence after Plague's statement. The journalists glance at each other, then at me, then at Valek, clearly wanting to ask a thousand questions but trained enough to wait.
One of them isn't trained enough. "Mr. Carter, can you confirm the nature of your relationship with—"
"I just did," Valek says. "She is my mate."
The journalist's mouth closes.
My turn.
I stand on legs that feel like overcooked noodles and grip the edge of the table hard enough to whiten my knuckles. The tablet screen glows up at me, my words waiting in their neat little paragraphs, and for one horrible second they blur into meaningless shapes.
I meet Wraith's eyes, and for the first time since we came here, they soften. I glance at Valek, too, and he gives me a faint but unmistakable nod. Whiskey gives me a thumbs up, and next to him, Plague a tight, strained smile. Thane's smile is just as tired.
These statements will determine the fate of this pack.
My family.
I take a breath that goes all the way down to my feet and start reading.
"My name is Ivy Byrne. For over a year, I was engaged to Wade Kelly."
Every recorder shifts closer.
"During that time, Wade controlled what I wore, who I spoke to, and where I went. He monitored my phone. He isolated me from friends and family. I'm still estranged from them. When I tried to leave the first time, he forced his mark on me without my consent."
My voice doesn't crack.
I'm surprised by that.
I keep going.
"I escaped by biting off his finger when he grabbed my hair to stop me from reaching the door.
I burned off the mating mark with a flat iron in a bus station bathroom.
I dyed my hair. I bought a one-way ticket to the last place he'd ever look for me, and I hid in the maintenance tunnels of the Ghosts' arena. "
The scratch of pens has stopped. Someone in the back row has her hand over her mouth.
"I sharpened skates at night to give myself something to do besides lose my mind.
I lived on vending machine food and scrounged change from the stands.
I built a nest out of stolen team merchandise in an abandoned VIP suite and set up security cameras from discarded tablets so I'd know if anyone was coming.
I was starting to go feral myself in those tunnels.
I still have some of those shadows left inside me. "
I pause. Swallow. The tablet screen swims for a second before sharpening again.
"Wraith found me first. He brought me soup he'd microwaved so badly the noodles had disintegrated."
I manage a tight laugh, and a few journalists laugh with me, but it's dangerously close to a cry.
I clear my throat to get through the rest. "He brought me medicine when I was sick.
He held me through a fever all night and never once tried to make a move on me, despite his feral nature.
He knew we were scent matches before I did.
He didn't tell me because he didn't want to pressure me. Because he thought…"
My voice falters. I feel Wraith's eyes on me from where he stands behind the table, even though I can't turn around to check.
"He… thought I wouldn't want him. Because of how he looks, and because he's feral."
The room is so quiet I can hear the ventilation system humming.
"He was wrong. I fell for him so hard, it wouldn't have mattered if we were scent matches at all. Then Thane, Plague, Whiskey. And when I smashed Valek over the head with a fire extinguisher and management moved him into the pack house to make it up to him, I fell for him, too."
I don't clarify what I mean by that. I want them to have something else to fixate on. Pens are flying all over the papers now and a few journalists sit straight up in their seats like it's physically killing them to not ask for more details.
"Being mated to this pack, to all of them, is the best thing that's ever happened to me. They're good alphas. Everything they do is to protect the people they love. They love me, and I love them."
I set the tablet down and sit.
Valek's knee presses against mine.
I press back.
He presses harder.
Eliza gives a small nod and gestures to Thane.
Thane stands. He doesn't adjust the microphone either. He looks out at the press corps for a long moment, his jaw working, his eyes even darker than they normally are.
"My name is Thane Belmont. I'm the captain of the Ghosts and the leader of this pack."
His voice is steady. Lower than usual, but steady.
"Every alpha at this table acted to protect a member of our pack. I stand by every decision made on that ice and in what followed. If the league wants to discipline someone, they can start with me."
A ripple goes through the press corps. Pens move faster.
"Wraith Belmont is my brother. I have known him his entire life. I trust him with my pack, and I trust him with our mate. Anyone who believes a feral alpha cannot be trusted has not met my brother."
His jaw works again. He takes a breath.
"He wrote his own statement. He asked me to read it for him. I said yes because he is my brother, and because what he has to say deserves to be heard in his own words, even if it has to come through my voice."
Thane pulls a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket. He unfolds it carefully, smoothing the creases flat against the table.