Plague
The hotel is just a twenty-minute drive from the restaurant. Glass and stone facade, valet parking, a lobby with a polished marble floor. A concierge who looks like he was born to play a butler in a silent film.
It may not be fireworks and grilled cheese sandwiches, but I do hope she feels spoiled regardless. I'm not going to mark my mate in the dirt.
Ivy's still in her date outfit, which is beautiful, of course—everything she wears is beautiful because she is beautiful, but this dress flares around her hips just right—but not warm enough for the planetarium. I mentioned this before we left, and she packed a bag we fetched from my trunk.
The plan is simple. Check in, let her change, put Whiskey's takeout in the suite's mini fridge so it doesn't congeal into something Whiskey would still eat but I would smack out of his hands, and then head to the planetarium.
Simple.
Bulletproof, even.
The elevator opens on the top floor and I lead Ivy down the carpeted hallway, black keycard in hand, listening to her happily narrating everything she's seeing and confirming that yes, I did see the unnecessary size and detail of the solid gold cock on the statue of the alpha in the lobby, and that yes, medically speaking, it is a very good thing no real alpha has a knot the size of a cantaloupe.
I tap the card.
The lock clicks green.
I push the door open and hear it before I see it.
A rustling sound and a creak of bedsprings.
I step in front of Ivy, arm out, blocking her from entering.
"Stay behind me," I say quietly.
"Plague, why—"
"Stay."
I push the door wider.
The suite is dark, save for a single bedside lamp.
Where Whiskey is sprawled like a Renaissance painting of a debauched god.
Red silk bathrobe. Wide open. Nothing underneath.
Red rose in his teeth.
"WHAT THE FUCK, WHISKEY!"
I barely register I'm yelling. I'm too busy saving the takeout bag from spilling over the floor when my hands go immediately numb and cold from the adrenaline flush blasting through my veins.
Ivy doubles over laughing. Hands on her knees, wheezing so hard she isn't even making noise.
"Hey, wildcat." Whiskey's grin stretches around the rose stem. He pulls it out of his teeth with a flourish and extends it toward her. "Miss me?"
She's already launching herself onto the bed and crashing into his chest. He catches her with a delighted grunt, silk robe fluttering, and she kisses him while I stand in the doorway with my coat still on, my blood pressure somewhere in the stratosphere.
"You—" I point at him, my hand visibly shaking even with the fucking driving gloves. "You scared the fucking shit out of me. I thought someone broke in."
Whiskey pulls back from Ivy's kiss long enough to look offended. "Broke in? Dude, I'm your mate. I have a right to be here."
"You have a right to be here at ten. It's…" I check my watch. "Seven-fucking-fifteen, Whiskey!"
"Yeah." He props himself up on one elbow, Ivy still draped across his chest. The robe has slipped off one massive shoulder entirely, revealing the full scope of his admittedly glorious physique. A Roman god who enjoys indulging himself, truly. "I got here early."
"Three hours early?"
He counts on his big hands. "Uh. Two hours and forty-five minutes, actually."
"Oh, for fuck's sake," I growl, squeezing the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger as Ivy continues to laugh hysterically. "You didn't need to be that early, regardless."
"I got time blindness, man! Look it up in your medical journals. You know I've got ADHD."
I close my eyes.
I count to five.
I open them.
He's still grinning.
"How did you even get in?" I demand, flinging open the mini fridge door hard enough it bangs against the wall. I grab it to steady it and shove the takeout bag inside, flustered. There's fucking beer in here. "The room is under my name, not yours. That's a security risk if—"
"Told the front desk I was your mate."
I freeze, my hand tightening on the container of hummus enough a little of it leaks out the top.
"You told them you're my mate?" I croak.
"Why? Would you prefer I call ya somethin' else?"
"Like what?" Ivy pipes up before I can stop her.
"Partner? Pardner, as in howdy? Boo bear? Sugar plum? My wittle—"
"I will suffocate you, Whiskey."
"—honey bunny ice prince—"
"Whiskey!"
Ivy just giggles.
I growl, momentarily soothed by the sound.
Whiskey snorts. "Kinda funny, actually." He scratches at his stomach thoughtfully.
"I know alpha-alpha pairings aren't always, uh, accepted, but they didn't question it.
Didn't even bat an eye. Just handed me the keycard.
Kinda sweet of 'em to be progressive about it, actually.
Unless they thought you were so pretty, maybe you're an ome—"
"Shut up," I mutter, shoving the hummus into the fridge and closing the door. I press both palms flat against the counter and breathe.
Behind me, Ivy is still giggling into Whiskey's chest. I can hear her muffled laughter and his low, pleased rumbling purr.
He didn't just do this to fuck around.
He wanted to make her laugh.
At least she's happy.
Sighing, I turn around, arms crossed, and fix Whiskey with the flattest stare I can manage.
"You're staying here," I tell him. "While we're at the planetarium. Here. In this room. You are not going to pop up behind an exhibit. You are not going to appear in the gift shop. You are not going to hire a skywriter."
"Bro." He puts his hand over his bare, enormous chest. I mean his heart. "I promise. That would be fucked up. It's your date. I have boundaries."
I give him a doubtful once-over and go to the mirror to make sure I didn't spill takeout on my coat, plucking a few stray hairs off the collar. Great. He scared me so badly, I'm shedding.
"It's our date," Ivy corrects from her position sprawled across him. "All three of us. But yes, Whiskey. Stay. This part of it's just for Plague and me."
He salutes. "Roger that, wildcat."
She kisses his forehead and rolls off the bed, grabbing her bag from where I set it near the closet. "I'm changing. Five minutes."
The bathroom door shuts and the suite goes completely silent.
Whiskey sits up, the silk pooling around his waist. "Are you gonna give me a kiss goodbye too?" he asks, his grin twisting into a far more dangerous smirk.
"No."
His bottom lip does the thing where it pushes out by approximately two millimeters, and I hate that I know this is the exact expression that precedes me caving on something.
I cross the room in four strides, grab a fistful of red silk, and kiss him.
He makes a startled, happy sound against my mouth. His giant hand finds the back of my neck, pulling me down, and I let him for exactly three seconds.
"Stay," I repeat against his lips in a low growl. "Here."
"Yes, sir," he says breathlessly.
I straighten my turtleneck, which doesn't need straightening, and turn away before he can see the flush crawling up my throat.
There are maybe twelve other people at the planetarium, and none of them look up from their phones when we enter.
Perfect.
I chose it specifically because it's small, mostly frequented by students and professors, and there's a showing tonight of a program on deep-space nebulae that I reserved before we collectively decided to take her on dates.
Just in case.
It's a converted observatory on the university campus, domed and quiet, surrounded by bare oak trees with branches reaching up to the dark sky. It isn't well-insulated, and it's chillier than I expected. I shrug out of my coat halfway through the parking lot and hand it to Ivy.
"Thanks," she says, leaning up to kiss my jaw.
The warmth that floods through me makes a coat entirely unnecessarily.
I guide her to our seats in the back row, the ones I specifically requested because they have the widest viewing angle and, more importantly, the most privacy. The recliners tilt back at the touch of a lever, and Ivy sinks into hers with a pleased, cute sound.
I settle beside her.
She's changed into a soft cream sweater and jeans, with thick wool socks inside her boots. Warm enough for the walk from the parking lot, comfortable enough for reclining. Her hair is loose, dyed dark waves brushing her shoulders.
I find myself wondering again if she's going to stop dyeing it, now that she doesn't have to hide. The privacy might not actually be necessary anymore.
At least there are no fans to worry about. I can't exactly hide behind Whiskey and let him do all the talking and selfie-taking when he's promised he's not going to show up.
"It's happening," Ivy whispers as the dome goes dark.
And the stars come out.
It's different from how they appear gradually in nature.
The projector brings them all at once, covering every inch of the dome above us as the Milky Way sweeps overhead in a luminous band.
Constellations emerge from the chaos one by one as a narrator's voice begins, explaining the lifecycle of the stars.
Ivy's barely breathing. Her hand finds mine, open and waiting, on the armrest between us. Her fingers lace through mine and we both squeeze.
Whatever she's looking at has her absolutely enraptured.
I have no idea what it is.
I'm watching her instead.
The projected starlight plays across her face in shifting colors, her parted lips, her wide eyes reflecting the constellations in unguarded wonder I have never seen on another person.
She's beautiful.
She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and I've seen the Mediterranean at sunset and the inside of a human heart.
She turns to look at me, catching me staring, but I don't look away this time.
The corner of her mouth curves. "You're not watching," she whispers.
"I am," I breathe.
Her smile widens. She leans across the armrest and presses her lips to the corner of my jaw, just below my ear. "You romantic bastard," she breathes against my skin.
My pulse kicks up.
She settles back into her seat, head resting on my shoulder, and I turn my face against her hair and press my lips to her head. Her hand squeezes mine again as the nebulae bloom overhead.
And I think, with the calm certainty of a diagnosis I've finally accepted, that I would watch her watch the stars for the rest of my life and never once look up.