Ivy
Wraith's scarred fingers trace the layered marks on my shoulder like he's reading braille.
We're on the couch in the living room, my back against his chest, his knees bracketing my hips. I pulled the collar of my sweater down so he could see. He's been at it for a solid five minutes now, his touch light and gentle.
A low rumble moves through his chest into my spine.
"Beautiful, right?" I ask him, twisting to look up at his face.
His eyes crinkle above the mask, the blue warm and soft. He was wearing it when I came home with Whiskey and Plague half an hour ago, and I haven't had a chance to ask him about it. It's been nonstop chaos.
He signs one-handed, his other arm still wrapped around my waist. Yes. You're very beautiful.
I push against him playfully. "I mean the marks."
YOU. All of you.
"Cornball."
His chest shakes with that silent laugh.
"They are very nice."
Valek's voice comes from the armchair across the room, where he's been sitting so still and quiet I almost forgot he was there. His long legs are crossed at the ankle, a paperback open on his knee, silver eyes fixed on the page.
He hasn't looked up once.
Hasn't moved, either, except to turn pages.
He's been like this since we got back. Present but distant. Orbiting the pack at a wider radius than usual, which is saying something for an alpha who already keeps the emotional equivalent of a crocodile-filled moat around himself.
"Thanks, Valek," I say with a smile.
He turns a page.
I want to know what's bothering him, but when I asked him, he just muttered "bad dream" and wouldn't elaborate. Everything about his posture says don't push it. The crossed ankles, the book angled like a shield, how he hasn't once shifted his weight since I sat down.
He's locked in tight. Pushing him now would just make him seal the door.
Later, then. When he's not braced for it.
It isn't the right time anyway. Right now, all I can think about is how Wraith isn't purring, he's wearing his mask again, and the fresh marks on my shoulder are all tugging when I'm near the alphas who made them, like compass needles finding north.
They're pulling me in every direction right now, and two are still missing.
Wraith adjusts me in his lap, pulling me closer, and winces.
The wince is subtle. A tightening around his eyes, a fractional shift of his jaw. If I wasn't sitting on him, I'd have missed it.
But I am sitting on him.
"Hey." I twist around fully, straddling his thighs so I can face him. "Let me see."
He shakes his head.
"Wraith."
His scarred hands come up. I'm fine.
"You winced."
Muscle spasm.
"You are a terrible liar." I add in a whisper only he can hear, "Misha."
His eyes narrow slightly above his mask, but there's no heat in it. Just the stubborn, frustrated look of an alpha who hates admitting when something hurts.
But he's been adjusting it every few minutes. Tugging it away from his jaw, shifting it, pulling it down a fraction and then immediately yanking it back up.
I reach for the mask and stop with my fingers at the top edge of the fabric, hovering.
"Can I?"
He hesitates. His blue eyes flick to Valek.
"I'm not looking," Valek says from behind his book.
Wraith exhales through his nose and nods.
I ease the gaiter down.
The edges of the bandages I applied are curling, and I lift them a little. Beneath the gauze, the sutures are healing well. But the exposed muscle on that side is spasming slightly. I'd miss it if I weren't so close.
"You're hurting," I murmur.
His jaw tightens, the muscle pulling tighter.
I peel the old bandage away carefully. He holds perfectly still, barely breathing, his hands gripping my thighs. When the adhesive pulls against the sensitive tissue, a stifled growl rumbles in his throat.
The skin beneath the bandage looks better than I expected, all things considered.
"I don't think you need this anymore," I say, holding up the spent bandage.
He blinks.
The bandage?
"Yeah. It's healed enough. Fresh air will be better for it than anything else."
Emphasis on fresh air.
His hand drifts toward his face.
"Don't touch," I warn, catching his wrist.
He huffs.
I smooth my thumb along the line of his jaw, avoiding the sutures, tracing the border where his smooth skin meets jagged, silky scars.
His eyes slide shut.
"Your masks are hurting you more, aren't they?" I ask quietly.
He doesn't answer right away, his blue eyes cracking open slightly to meet mine. They're flat with misery as he nods.
I felt better without it, he signs. I put it back on this morning to see. It's… getting worse.
Fuck.
Plague warned me this morning when we were getting ready to come home that he thought this was going to happen. That masks that used to be tolerable are becoming instruments of torture, and there's no version of this that gets better on its own.
I look at the gaiter bunched around his throat. It isn't just a mask for him. It lets him exist in public.
Without it, he's trapped.
With it, he's in pain.
Lose-lose.
My throat tightens.
"Okay," I say, keeping my voice steady. "No bandage. And we'll figure out the gaiter. Just… don't wear it for the rest of the day, maybe?"
He shakes his head. I need it.
"I know."
For the hospital.
I blink. "Hospital?"
Thane's footsteps come down the stairs before Wraith can answer. The pack alpha rounds the corner into the living room in a fitted henley that hugs his broad frame, his shaggy hair pushed back from his face, holding his phone.
"Team visit at St. Luke's," Thane says, glancing between me and Wraith. He doesn't say anything about Wraith's face being uncovered, but his eyes linger for a moment. I can tell he's worried, too.
"Today?" I ask.
"Yeah. In about two hours. It's short notice, but Eliza thought it would be a good idea. Kind of fucked up to use that for PR if you ask me." Thane drops onto the opposite end of the couch, stretching his long legs out. "We do this every couple of months. The kids look forward to it."
Wraith's jaw tightens again.
The kids are scared of me, he signs.
"Some of them," Thane says honestly. "Most of them think you're cool as hell."
Cool as hell, Wraith repeats, his signs flat and stiff. Right. Not if they saw what happened on the ice.
"Knowing kids, I'm sure some of them think you're even cooler now," Thane replies, his lips tugging a little. "Besides, Whiskey says he has a surprise for today. I'm sure he'll keep them busy."
Wraith just sighs, and the sigh sounds more shallow and strained than usual.
He's in so much pain.
I hate it.
I hate it so fucking much.
"You okay?" I ask him quietly, stroking his dark hair.
He starts to sign something else, but he stops. He takes a deep breath, watching me.
What if I can't wear a mask anymore.
I stare at his hands, then at him. It isn't even a question. Just a flat, dead statement, like he's been carrying it around in his chest for days and it finally clawed its way out.
I take both of his hands and press them flat against my chest, right over my heartbeat. I hold them there.
"Then you can't wear it anymore," I say simply.
His eyes search mine.
"And we figure out what comes next. Together." I kiss his nose. "I already know it includes me sitting in your lap and wearing your mark, so."
His huffing breath comes out shaky. It isn't exactly a laugh, but the crushing stormcloud looming over him dissipates a little.
I need to go back to C-E-D-A-R-B-R-O-O-K, he signs. To see my doctor. This Friday. Come with me? And then… maybe we could stay the weekend. Just us.
My heart squeezes so hard I can't breathe for a second.
The last time he went to Cedarbrook, it ended… well, it ended fucking horribly. His mother tearing his mask off and calling him a monster. Dissociating in the woods while I set up a tent in a rainstorm and prayed he'd come back to me.
"Yeah," I say, pulling his forehead down to mine. "Of course I'll come."
His chest expands with a shuddering breath and his arms tighten around me, pulling me flush against him.
"brEAKFAST IS SERVED, MOTHERFUCKERS!"
Whiskey's bellow shakes the light fixture above us. Wraith's arms tighten reflexively and I nearly bite my own tongue from being squeezed.
Valek shuts his book loudly.
"COME AND GET IT BEFORE PLAGUE MAKES ME PLATE IT ALL FANCY AND SHIT!"
Wraith is already rising to his full height, carrying me with him effortlessly, and he sets me gently on my feet. He may be in terrible pain, but he's still ridiculously fucking strong.
"My hero," I tease him, kissing his jaw before padding into the kitchen.
The first thing I see is that Whiskey is wearing a cape.
Well, technically, it's a Ghosts team blanket safety-pinned at his throat and billowing behind him as he moves between the counter and the table with a spatula in one hand and a carton of orange juice in the other.
"Why are you wearing a cape?" I ask him, raising my eyebrows.
He looks down at himself, then back up at me, as if the answer is self-evident. "Because I'm marked now." He taps the bite on his neck proudly, grinning so wide I can see his molars. "Marked alphas have to wear capes. It's a thing. Plague's is on his way."
"It is absolutely not a thing," Plague says from the stove without turning around.
His own fresh mark peeks above his collar.
Their marks have healed, but they're pink rather than silver like mine.
Maybe it's because they're alphas. "Whiskey just likes to dress as a superhero when we go to the hospital.
And he's desperate to come up with a reason for me to do the same. "
"You could be a supervillain if being a hero isn't cool enough for you," Whiskey offers.
"No thank you."
Thane appears behind me in the doorway, takes one look at Whiskey, and turns around.
"Nope," he says, walking away.
"brO!" Whiskey shouts after him. "GET BACK HERE! I MADE YOU EGGS!"
Wraith makes a huffing sound as he ducks under the doorframe to join us. I already know he won't eat with the rest of the pack, but he crosses to the table and pulls out his usual seat at the far end.
I settle into my usual seat, too.
His lap.
His arms close around me automatically, muscle memory pulling me against his chest. I lean back, rest my head against his collarbone, and wait.
Nothing.
No vibration. No low, rolling hum rising through his ribs into mine.
I press closer, shifting my weight, settling deeper into him and nuzzling into his collarbone and his scarred throat. The way that always kicks the purr on, like turning a key.
Still nothing.
Wraith's purr is completely gone.
I keep my breathing steady, lacing my fingers through his where they rest against my stomach, and hold on.
Thane announces halfway through breakfast that we need to leave in an hour. Whiskey takes off in a flash, yelling about getting ready, nearly flattening Valek just as the silver-haired alpha finally comes into the kitchen.
Wraith's hands leave mine.
I feel him reach up and hear the soft drag of fabric. I don't have to look to know he's pulling the gaiter up over his lower face and smoothing it across the bridge of his nose with fingers that know exactly where every edge needs to sit.
His whole body shudders, just once.
I pull his hands back to my lap.
His grip is very, very tight.
Gods, I hope my mate is going to be okay.