Ivy
The loft is perfectly quiet and dark, just us now.
Wraith sets our takeout containers on the nightstand and waits there for a moment, hands at his sides. The scarf Plague gave him is still wrapped around his lower face, the fabric dark against the white bandages and scars visible above the edge.
He looks exhausted.
"Sit," I tell him, nodding toward the edge of the bed.
He doesn't look sure, but he sits.
I grab the first aid kit and bring it over, settling onto my knees in front of him on the mattress.
"Let me change these," I say, switching on the light by the bed.
His blue eyes flick to the amber light, then the kit. His hand drifts toward the scarf, but stops. He doesn't pull it down, his eyes sliding away.
I reach up and do it for him.
He lets me.
The dark fabric slides free, pooling around his neck. The bandages beneath are all fucked up at the edges.
"This might sting a little," I warn him. "Stay still."
He nods once.
I carefully peel the first strip of medical tape away from his jaw. He flinches, but holds still.
I work slowly. The old gauze comes away in sections. Some of it peels off clean. Some of it sticks where dried blood and plasma has stuck it in place, and I dampen those spots with saline solution from the kit, letting it soften before easing the gauze free.
Wraith doesn't make a sound.
His eyes are closed. His hands rest loosely on his thighs, and his broad shoulders rise and fall with slow, even breaths, like he's gone somewhere else in his mind.
I wish he'd open his eyes so he could see I'm not afraid.
I set the used gauze aside and reach for a fresh antiseptic wipe. I dab it around his stitches, careful not to get it on his teeth or gums.
He flinches again.
"Sorry," I murmur.
His hand rises and signs, I-T-S… O-K.
"Almost done."
I clean the rest of the area with careful strokes, watching his face for signs of pain beyond the small twitches. The stitches look good. No redness, no swelling. Plague really does know what he's doing.
When I reach for the fresh gauze and bandages, I pause.
There's enough here to mummify a horse. Rolls upon rolls of the stuff, plus extra tape, plus adhesive pads in multiple different sizes. I look at the pile, then at Wraith's face.
He really only needs them on one side. The stitched area where the scar tissue split needs protection. But the rest… Plague used extra so Wraith could cover up more. A kindness disguised as medical necessity.
I bandage the sutured area. Clean gauze, secured with medical tape, pressed gently into place along his left jaw where the split happened.
When I set the roll down, Wraith's eyes crack open.
He looks warily at me. Those blue eyes, bright even in exhaustion, searching my face with the desperate attention of someone who's spent his entire life preparing for terrible reactions.
"There," I say softly, smiling and kissing the tip of his nose. He blinks in surprise. "Done."
His hand slides toward the scarf.
But it drops back to his thigh.
We both exhale and just sit there, breathing together in the soft light, and his face is right there—inches from mine, half-bandaged and half-bare—and I realize for the first time, it's just my mate's face.
There's no spike of adrenaline this time, no strange clenching butterfly sensation in my stomach from latent jumpy feral omega nerves.
"You hungry?" I ask, smiling at him.
His mouth can't smile. It physically can't. But his eyes can smile just fine. The blue warms and the corners crinkle a little as he nods, still keeping his face turned down slightly, but uncovered.
I turn around and scoot back against his chest, settling between his thighs with my back to him, the way we always do when he eats. He reaches over me for his container—vegetable fried rice, extra tofu—and I open my pad thai in my lap.
My phone starts going off before I get through my first spring roll.
I wipe my fingers on my borrowed shirt—Plague would scream—and fish it out, expecting one of Whiskey's handmade memes about the pack or a check-in from Thane.
WHISKEY
Hey quick question
Can Plague suck Valek's cock?
I almost choke on my spring roll.
Wraith's hand steadies my shoulder, a questioning rumble vibrating through his chest against my back.
He's already positioned like he's going to give me the Heimlich maneuver, which would almost certainly result in my spine shooting out of my mouth if he did it, and I pat his hand quickly to reassure him I'm not in danger of death.
Not from choking, anyway.
"I'm fine," I wheeze, eyes watering, grinning so hard my cheeks hurt. "I'm fine. It's just Whiskey being… hold on."
I read it again to make absolutely sure I didn't hallucinate it.
Nope. That's exactly what it says.
I bite my lower lip and type back without hesitating.
IVY
if you send me a picture of my alphas having fun
I hit send and shove another bite of pad thai in my mouth, squirming a little because my brain is now providing images I did not authorize and my body is having all kinds of feelings about them.
All of them positive.
Wraith peers over my shoulder at the screen. He pauses, processing, then he exhales through his nose hard enough to ruffle my hair.
Plague is going to kill him for asking like that, he signs.
"Oh, absolutely," I say, grinning again.
Another silent laugh. His arms resettle around my waist and he goes back to his fried rice. I steal one of his spring rolls because mine are gone and he lets me, nudging the container closer with his knee.
I keep sneaking glances at my phone.
Nothing yet.
I eat another spring roll.
Still nothing.
They're either actually doing it, or Plague murdered Whiskey and is hiding the body. Both seem equally plausible.
When my phone lights up again, it's not Whiskey this time.
VALEK
Pack bonding.
And a photo.
I tap it open and…
Oh my gods.
It's a shot taken from above, Valek's arm long enough to get a clear angle. Plague is on his back, dark hair fanned across a pillow, Valek's cock stuffed in his mouth, his eyes dazed but flinty with fresh irritation.
And Whiskey is between Plague's thighs, face buried in his lap, one big hand pinning Plague's hip to the mattress.
And Valek—the photographer, naturally—is looking up at the camera with that wolfish smirk, platinum hair falling across one silver eye, his free hand tangled in Plague's dark hair.
Heat rockets through my entire body.
I stare at the photo.
Stare some more.
My thumb saves it before my brain catches up to my fingers. Behind me, Wraith lets out another questioning rumble and tilts his head, craning to see my screen.
He blinks and tilts his head the other way.
His eyes lift to mine with an expression I can only describe as bewildered acceptance, like a meteorite just landed in his loft but he's already decided it's fine.
I'm already typing.
IVY
tell him he looks pretty
VALEK
Done. He's furious.
I snort so hard it hurts my sinuses, dissolving into giggles against Wraith's chest. He pats my head like I'm a small, unhinged creature he has no fucking idea what to do with, which honestly isn't far off right now.
"They're so good," I tell him, grinning even more. My face hurts. "Very good. Very… bonded."
His brow furrows. Then smooths. He signs something too fast for me to catch.
"Slower?"
Plague will pretend this didn't happen.
"Oh, absolutely."
Whiskey will never shut up about it.
"Also absolutely."
He pauses. Then he rubs the back of his head and signs, Valek is… strange.
"Very strange. He's perfect."
I grab my phone one more time and set the selfie as my lockscreen—three of my alphas, all mine—because why the fuck not? It isn't like I let anyone outside the pack see my phone. Then I open Valek's thread.
IVY
That picture is now my lockscreen
Goodnight boys
I toss the phone onto the blankets, fighting giggles.
When the containers are empty and stacked on the table, I lean back against his strong, warm body and let my eyes half-close. His arms wrap around my waist from behind, his hands resting on my stomach.
Then he shifts.
His arms loosen. He reaches around me, and I feel one finger tap my wrist.
I open my eyes, wondering if he's going to offer to do something about how much I'm squirming right now. Was it that obvious? Fuck, he's a feral alpha, he could probably catch the scent of my—
Want to tell you something, he signs in front of me.
I twist sideways in his lap so I can look up at him. That wasn't what I was expecting, and I feel the familiar surge of nerves from being told something along the lines of we need to talk.
At least I'm not squirming anymore.
"Okay."
He pauses. His jaw works, the exposed muscles flexing in a way I've learned to read as hesitation. Gathering courage.
Something only you will ever have.
My heart does a slow, heavy thud.
"What is it?"
His hands move carefully.
Russian names have layers.
I wait.
The formal name. The one the world uses. And the diminutive. The one only the people closest to you ever say.
His eyes hold mine.
M-I-K-H-A-I-L is dead. I gave that name to the press because it already belonged to a ghost. Something to hand over before they could take it.
He pauses.
Wraith is who I am, now.
Another pause, longer this time.
But… there is one more.
I hold my breath.
I have never given it to anyone. Not even Thane.
He reaches for my hand.
I give it to him.
He turns my palm face up, cradling it in his massive scarred hand, and with the tip of his index finger, he writes on my skin.
M…
I….
S….
H…
A.
My throat closes up.
When he finishes, he holds my hand open, his finger resting at the center of the last letter. His eyes lift to mine and there's something in them I've never seen before.
He looks… shy.
His jaw works again and he signs with his free hand.
It's associated with bears.
I blink.
Common name for bears, he clarifies, and the way he ducks his head slightly, the way those burning blue eyes flick away and then back—
He's embarrassed.
He's embarrassed and he's cute, and I'm going to die.
"Misha," I whisper.
His whole body goes still.