48. Plague
Plague
Iown a frankly obscene number of turtlenecks, and I still had trouble finding one I like enough for tonight.
After all, it's the most important night of my life.
This one is black cashmere, fitted enough to sit clean beneath my jaw without bunching up. I smooth the fabric across my collarbone and check the mirror, turning left, then right, checking for nonexistent lint and creases.
I look like someone who has his shit together.
I look like a fucking liar.
My hair is still a problem, though. And it's been a problem since I washed it an hour ago and let it air-dry instead of using the diffuser, which was a mistake born of distraction and praying Whiskey would occupy himself on the other side of the house so he wouldn't hound me about it.
He never did, of course, and then I forgot.
I know Whiskey. Either he'd want to use it himself, which would end with it destroyed, or he would think it's hilarious that I take grooming seriously.
Now the waves have a mind of their own. I gather it into a low ponytail, examine the result, pull it out, try again. The elastic snaps.
"Fuck."
I dig through the bathroom drawer for another one and grab a fresh disposable mask while I'm at it, pitch black. I pick it up, loop it over my ears, and adjust the wire across the bridge of my nose.
Hmm.
No mask tonight. We're going to a restaurant anyway.
I fold it and put it back in the drawer.
My phone buzzes and I glance at it sideways, the elastic between my teeth while I pull my hair back into another tail, already knowing what it is before I look.
THANE
Wade's PR team released a new statement.
Check the thread.
Beat you to it, Captain.
I've been tracking Wade Kelly's media strategy all day. He's been all over social media since this morning, so apparently, someone's feeling better. His first coherent act was calling his publicist.
Miraculously, he hasn't complained about being visited in the night by Whiskey and Valek. He's not completely stupid, apparently.
The angle is predictable. He's portraying the sympathetic victim, complete with quivering swollen lower lip on the videos he's taking from his hospital bed, IV in full view every time.
Would a stable omega reject a bond?
Would a healthy person burn their own skin with a flat iron and hide in a tunnel?
Would an omega terrified of alphas feel safe with a feral alpha like Wraith?
The legal fight already broke against him. Ivy's testimony, Wraith spilling everything in his statement, the pack's unified front under alpha instinct defense… that part is over.
But Wade doesn't need to win in court.
He needs to win in public perception, because public perception feeds the league review board, and the board decides what happens to the pack.
The smear campaign leans hardest on the burned mark. Evidence of self-harm. Concerning behavior that raises questions about the legitimacy of claimed scent matches.
The implication being that Ivy is too damaged to know what she wants. That the pack took advantage of a vulnerable omega. That Wraith—the feral "monster" who mauled America's golden boy on live television—is the predator, not the protector.
Rage has been bubbling behind my sternum since the moment I first turned my phone on when I woke up this morning.
It's why I spent today researching instead of doom-scrolling. I've been reading clinical papers since dawn, cross-referencing databases and international pharmaceutical registries, and I found what I was looking for around noon.
Because Wade's narrative only works if Wraith stays vulnerable. If the league has reason to believe Wraith is unstable, deteriorating, one bad game away from going fully feral on live television again.
If there's something that might help, it takes the teeth out of every argument Wade's team seems to be building.
And it might save Wraith in the process.
I need to talk to him before I leave.
I head down to the kitchen, since that's where I last saw him rummaging through the fridge.
He's standing at the counter in a black tank, cutting fruit with a knife too large for the task.
His scarf is looped loose around his neck, but it isn't covering his lower face.
The bandage on the sutured side has been changed recently.
Ivy's work.
It's neater than mine, I notice, pleased.
He glances up, his eyes sweeping over me.
You look nice, he signs.
"Thank you."
Nervous?
"No."
He tilts his head, the kitchen light shining on his teeth.
"I'm not nervous," I sigh, pulling out a chair and sitting at the table. "I need to talk to you about something."
He sets the knife down and wipes his hands on a towel.
He isn't wearing gloves, either, I realize, the webbed scars iridescent in the same light that shines on his sharp teeth.
He turns to face me fully, leaning his hip against the counter and crossing his arms, which on Wraith looks like two tree trunks folding across a cliff face.
That slight wariness bleeds into his blue eyes as I meet his gaze. He still isn't comfortable being looked at, even now.
"So… Cedarbrook."
His jaw tightens enough that the exposed tendons pull, and his eyes go flat in a way that means the conversation is already unwelcome.
"When are you going back?"
He shakes his head. No.
That… isn't exactly an answer to the question I asked, but okay. "The nerve damage is getting worse," I say gently. "You're compensating. You hold your head at an angle, and I can tell you don't go around the house unmasked because you want to—"
I said no.
"Wraith…"
He shoves off the counter and turns his back to me, bracing both hands on the edge of the sink. His massive shoulders bunch under his dark shirt.
I wait.
He doesn't move.
"What are you afraid they'll tell you?" I ask quietly.
His fingers grip the sink hard enough the metal creaks.
Then his hands come up.
That I can't wear anything on my face anymore.
I don't react. I keep my breathing even, my posture still.
The pressure, he continues slowly. The masks. The scarf. Even the fabric makes it worse. It's driving me fucking insane. I'm scared I'll…
His hands drop for a moment and he sighs, steadying himself.
If they tell me I can't cover my face anymore, I can't leave this house.
He turns around. His blue eyes are burning, but not with anger. He looks terrified. Miserable and terrified.
If I can't leave, I might go feral. Fully this time. Permanently.
I let my eyes drop to my hands, taking a deep breath as I consider my next words carefully.
I've read the literature on feral degeneration in alphas and omegas.
Betas are less affected. Progressive neurological deterioration is triggered by isolation and sensory deprivation.
The brain rewires itself for survival instead of connection, and past a certain threshold, the process becomes irreversible.
He knows this.
He's lived on the edge of it his entire life.
"There's a drug," I begin. "It doesn't have the best name. I'm sorry. I know the term is… loaded."
His eyes narrow doubtfully.
"BioMuzzle," I say reluctantly, hating it even as it leaves my mouth.
He swallows hard enough the scars shift on his throat.
I pull out my phone and slide it across the table to him, screen up.
The PDF I've been annotating all day fills the display.
"Compassionate use protocols were just approved in Canada.
You can bring it to the States," I continue.
"It's a stabilizer. It targets the specific neural pathways responsible for dissociative episodes and feral regression.
The preliminary data is…" I pause, choosing the right word. "It's promising."
A strongly optimistic word, medically speaking. I don't know if he'll take it that way.
Wraith stares at the phone.
Is it a pill?
I shake my head. "Injection."
He looks defeated, but he nods. Side effects?
"Manageable. Fatigue, mild nausea during the adjustment period. Some subjects reported dulled scent perception for the first two weeks, but it normalized."
I wouldn't be able to smell Ivy anymore?
"Temporarily… maybe not. But it wasn't permanent in any of the reported cases."
He's quiet for a long time. His scarred hand reaches toward the phone, hovering, then pulls back.
You've been researching this.
"Yes."
Why?
Because Wade Kelly's smear campaign is designed to paint Wraith as a violent beast. Because the league review board will use any evidence of instability to justify a ban.
Because I care about him—love him, even—and I refuse to let him drown.
"Because it's what I do," I say, shrugging.
His eyes hold mine, then he lets out a soft huff. You could have been a doctor.
"I could have been a lot of things." I clear my throat. "I'd like to sit down with you tomorrow," I say. "Go through the data properly. Dosing protocols, eligibility criteria, how to access the compassionate use program. If you want."
He hesitates long enough that I prepare myself for refusal.
Then he nods once.
"Does Ivy know?" I ask. "About the nerve damage getting worse?"
He shakes his head. I'll tell her when I get a chance.
"You should ask her to go back to Cedarbrook with you." My lips quirk into a sympathetic smile. "Second time's the charm, right?"
He just sighs, his enormous shoulders dropping. And for a second, the supposedly most terrifying player in the league—although I'd argue that title doesn't go to him, or even Valek, but Whiskey—looks almost like a tired kid who doesn't want to go to the doctor again.
I understand the feeling.
Footsteps thunder down the hall.
The kitchen door bangs open and Whiskey fills the frame, still in his flannel from earlier, hair standing in six directions, grinning so wide his face barely contains it.
Speak of the devil.
"YO!" He makes finger guns at me. "Tonight's the night, baby! You ready? You pumped? I'm fuckin' pumped!"
"Whiskey."
He stops mid-shooting-me-with-his-hands. "What?"
I look pointedly at Wraith, who's gone back to cutting fruit. Whiskey just looks at me like a clueless gigantic puppy.
Wait. I can sign while Wraith isn't watching.
We're talking about something serious, I sign to Whiskey, eyeing Wraith the entire time to drop my hands the moment he turns around.
Whiskey slowly blinks those big brown eyes. "Uhh… what's serious?"
Wraith spins to stare at us, his eyes sharp and narrow.
Oh, for the love of fuck…
"Nothing," I croak. "We were just finishing up."
Wraith gives me a long, unreadable look. Then he turns back to the fruit.
Whiskey bounces on the balls of his feet, clearly too wired to register the shift in atmosphere. "Cool. Cool cool cool. So what time are we doing tonight's mark? I was thinking we could—"
"Ten," I say. "We're going to a hotel."
"And when's your date?"
I check the vintage Cartier on my wrist. "Leaving in two hours."
"Bro, you're dressed like it's in ten minutes."
"I can't wear a flannel and jeans where we're going," I say dryly. "And neither can you, by the way. We're spending the night at a five-star hotel. Showing up looking like a werewolf will draw attention."
"Oh, I've been to five-star hotels," he says.
"I don't mean five stars on Yelp, Whiskey."
He doesn't say anything. He's… staring at me. Looking me up and down.
By the time his grin softens into a warm, almost sweet smile, I'm already pushing my chair back and standing because I don't like the cutesy bonding turn the conversation's about to take.
Gods only know how much we might bond tonight.
So much for this is never happening again, Whiskey.
"Well, you look good," he says, his lips curving slightly. "You'd look good in flannel, too, though. 'Specially mine."
"Thank you," I mutter.
Wraith huffs.
Whiskey barks a laugh and I leave the kitchen before either of them can see my ears go pink, because they're already doing it and the last thing I need is Whiskey pointing it out.
The hallway is dim and quiet. From somewhere above, I hear the soft murmur of Ivy's voice drifting down through the open loft hatch.
"…no, Eliza, I understand, but the wording on the third paragraph implies consent was ambiguous, and it wasn't. The mark was forced. Full stop. I'm not softening that to make it more palatable."
A pause. Then Thane's low voice, steady and measured.
"She's right. If anyone bitches, have them call me directly."
I stop at the base of the loft stairs without meaning to.
She's up there helping Thane with Eliza. Wade's team is putting out fires by starting new ones, and Ivy is stamping them out from her nest on Wraith's bed.
She's truly become the heart of our pack.
And I pray I can be half the alpha the heart deserves.