47. Ivy
Ivy
The adrenaline from demolishing the rage room is still blasting through me as Whiskey drives us to what he calls "the spot."
It's an empty field about twenty minutes outside the city, past the industrial strip and the last gas station with a working light, down a dirt road that Hogzilla takes like a champ despite the ruts.
The grass is knee-high and silver with dew in the moonlight, surrounded by dark trees on three sides and absolutely nothing on the fourth.
Just open starry sky.
"This is where you bring women?" I ask, pulling off my helmet.
"This is where I bring fireworks," he corrects, already dismounting and crossing to the saddlebag. "Women are new. Well. Woman. Singular. You."
He starts unpacking the panniers and drops a bag into the grass with a heavy thud. The zipper's already partially open and I catch a flash of colorful cardboard tubes.
"Whiskey."
"Yeah?"
"Are those legal?"
"Uhhhhh. In Texas?"
"We're not in freaking Texas."
He grins at me, already unzipping the bag. Inside, there's a truly alarming collection of bottle rockets, Roman candles, what might be an actual bomb called MEGA THUNDER ALPHA 9000 in a box the size of a toaster.
He takes a brown paper bag out of the pannier cooler next, followed by a worn plaid blanket that matches his endless supply of flannels.
"This one's food," he tells me, spreading the blanket in the grass with a flourish, smoothing the corners like he's setting a table at a five-star restaurant. Then he bows. "Milady."
He's adorable.
Clinically insane, but adorable.
I sit cross-legged in the middle of the blanket, and he wraps a plush fleece team throw around my shoulders before heading back to Hogzilla and digging deeper into the pannier.
Out comes a dented one-burner camp stove.
Then a cast-iron skillet.
"You hauled cast iron out here," I say. "On a motorcycle."
“Hey. Hogzilla’s a motherfuckin’ beast. She can support an alpha like me, she can support some camp gear.” He thunks the skillet onto the burner and fishes a beat-up lighter out of his pocket. The flame catches with a soft whump.
“Fair,” I say, watching him unpack. A brick of butter, another brick of sharp cheddar, the thickest cut sourdough I’ve ever seen, and a little deli container he cracks open under my nose.
Caramelized onions.
"Made those at two in the morning," he says. "Low and slow, forty-five minutes. You can't rush an onion, wildcat. Everything else in life, sure. Not an onion."
Okay. That’s why I smelled onions last night. I was wondering what the hell was going on in the kitchen, but I know better than to ask.
I stare at him. "Who are you?"
"Tonight?" Butter hits the iron and sizzles. "Your personal chef, wildcat.”
He builds both sandwiches right there on the skillet. He checks the underside of the bread with the spatula, mutters "not yet" at it, and checks the other while I munch on a stolen chunk of cheddar.
"Chips are in the bag. Root beer's in the cooler,” he says.
They are. Two of them, glass bottles, the same brand Thane got me.
Which means he remembered too.
I pop mine open with my teeth, which I know isn’t the best idea, but old habits die hard.
"Eat first," he says, sliding the first sandwich onto a paper towel and handing it over. "Then we can blow shit up." He points the spatula at me. "Careful, it's—"
I've already bitten into it.
"—hot," he finishes.
Worth it.
Holy shit, worth it.
The crust, golden and crisp off the hot iron, shatters and gives way to ropes of molten cheddar and that sweet-savory layer of onion, all of it steaming into the night air, and I have to physically fight back the urge to make a noise like we're fucking and not eating grilled cheese.
I’m sure we’ll be getting to that soon.
"Good?" He's watching me eagerly, like a golden retriever who just dropped a tennis ball at my feet and is vibrating while he waits to see if I'll throw it.
"Good?" I say with my mouth full, covering it even though there's no polite way to eat something this cheesy. "Whiskey, this is the best grilled cheese I've ever had. It might be the best thing I've ever eaten, period."
He kills the flame, plates his own sandwich, and drops down beside me.
"Well, yeah." He takes a giant bite and half the sandwich is already gone. "You think I'm gonna take my girl out and feed her some bullshit cold-cut sub? Nah. Whiskey's Date Night Grilled Cheese, baby. Secret recipe. Only cooked fresh under the stars with illegal fireworks."
My chest hurts with how much I love this alpha.
I scoot closer to him on the blanket until our hips are pressed together, and he immediately lifts his arm so I can tuck myself against his warm side. His arm settles around my shoulders and I sink into his side with a handful of chips.
"C'mere," he says, shifting his legs so they're stretched out in front of him instead, and before I can respond, his hands find my waist and he lifts me easily into his lap.
My back presses against his broad chest. His arms wrap around me from behind, his chin resting on top of my head.
I settle against him and exhale.
His body is ridiculous. There's no other word for it.
The sheer mass of him, the way his arms engulf me completely, the thickness of his thighs bracketing mine.
I'm sitting on his lap and I barely take up half the real estate.
His stomach is soft and warm against my lower back, his chest behind me a wall of warmth and steady heartbeat.
I could live here.
I could build a nest on this alpha's lap and never leave, and I'm pretty sure he'd just keep handing me snacks and cracking jokes he'd never run out of until the end of time.
"This is nice," I murmur, tipping my head back against his collarbone.
"Yeah?" His arms tighten a fraction. His voice rumbles through his chest and into my spine. "You sure you still wanna wait to get marked until after your date with Plague?"
I can practically hear the grin in his voice. But as much as he's hoping I'll change my mind from the decision I made earlier, I'm pretty sure part of that is because he's, well, a horny alpha.
"Sorry, big guy." I twist in his lap to kiss his stubbled cheek, snuggling more against his warmth, my hand splaying against his broad chest. "I'm, um, still sore from Thane, anyway. But just think of how good it'll be if we wait? It's just one more day."
"Twenty-seven hours before I actually get to mark you," he corrects instantly.
"You're counting hours?"
"And minutes. Or trying. But I didn't wanna seem desperate."
"Too late."
He huffs a laugh, but it fades faster than usual. I feel the exact moment the question shifts from playful to real.
"Can I ask you somethin'?"
"Always."
"How come me and Plague are together?"
He says it like it's nothing. Tosses it out between us like a crumpled napkin. But his eyes drift to the treeline instead of my face, and his thumb stops moving.
"Thane got his own thing," he continues, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. "His date, his moment, you and him in the truck. Which is awesome. I'm stoked for him. Genuinely." He clears his throat. "But me and Plague are sharing, so I was just—I mean, is that a—"
"Whiskey."
"It's not a big deal…"
I take his jaw and turn his face back to mine. He resists for half a second, which is how I know it actually is a big deal.
"You think I put you together because you're not enough on your own," I say.
He flinches. Barely. If I wasn't sitting on his lap, I'd have missed it entirely.
"I said it's not a big—"
"You're wrong."
He shuts up.
I hold his gaze. "I want you and Plague together because the three of us together is its own thing. Something I don't get with anyone else."
And you're in love with each other, too, I add mentally, but that's an inside thought I keep to myself. Because he would just deny it and probably light all the fireworks at once as a distraction, and that might not be survivable.
His throat bobs.
"Okay," he says roughly. Then, because he's Whiskey and can't leave anything alone for more than four seconds, "So it's like a… a sexy group project. And I'm the hot one who does all the work."
"Sure. Let's go with that."
He grins, but it's wobbly. His hand comes up to cover mine where it rests on his cheek, and he holds it there for a beat longer than he needs to.
"And then Valek, then Wraith once your skin can take it?" he asks. "Same plan?"
It's funny. As nervous as Wraith is, Valek is the one I feel like I'm going to have to fight to get him to mark me. Maybe literally, knowing him.
"Same plan," I confirm.
"Good." He nods once, firmly, like he's locking it in. "Twenty-seven hours, wildcat. I can do twenty-seven hours. I was a goddamn Marine."
"You sure?" I ask, arching an eyebrow.
He presses his finger to my lips. "Sure as hell, wildcat."
I bite his finger.
"OW! What is it with you and biting?!"
"I almost said fuck the plan three times tonight, you know," I tell him, releasing his finger.
His brain visibly short-circuits. "… Three times? When?"
"When you handed me the sledgehammer." I lean closer. "When you made me an insane grilled cheese." Closer. My lips brush his ear. "And right now."
His breath catches. His hands tighten on my hips hard enough to leave marks of their own, and I feel him twitch beneath me.
"You can't just say shit like that," he breathes.
"Sure I can. I'm feral, remember?"
"Yeah, yeahhh," he groans, kissing the top of my head and stroking my hair back from my face.
I feel the last of the tension drain out of his body beneath mine.
"We could always do something else," I tease him.
"Oh yeah? Like what?" he asks breathlessly.
I don't answer him with words.
I twist around in his lap and grab two fistfuls of his flannel and haul myself up his chest, and his eyes go wide for half a second before I crush my mouth to his.
He makes a low, startled sound against my lips and his hands fly to my waist, steadying me, but I don't want to be steadied.
I want to climb this alpha like a tree.