Wraith
WHISKEY
Yooooo bro you can play again but you gotta mark our omega by the end of the month.
League says all five marks or the instinct defense is toast.
Two weeks bro
You got this
Ido not got this.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
Ivy shifts in my lap, devouring a bucket of popcorn. She's wrapped in a Ghosts team blanket like a burrito, her hair spilling over one shoulder, nestled happily against my body.
She hasn't seen the texts yet.
And my jaw is fucking killing me. I can't even think straight to text Whiskey back.
Even my most worn, stretched-out gaiter presses against the nerve cluster below my left ear and every heartbeat sends a pulse of white fire through the tissue there.
I've had it on for forty minutes and it already feels like someone's holding a lit match to my face.
I should take the mask off.
The VIP box is dead quiet except for the low roar of the crowd below and the tinny echo of the PA system bouncing off the glass.
The lights are dimmed up here—Ivy asked the staff to turn them down, even though I didn't think I was making it that obvious the light was making this worse—and the tinted windows keep us invisible from the arena below.
We're alone.
Nobody can see us up here.
My hand comes up and hooks the top edge of the gaiter. I pull it down an inch. Cold air hits my scars and I almost groan from relief. The constant fire dims to an uncomfortable but bearable simmer.
I pull it down another inch.
Then I catch the ghost of my reflection in the tinted glass.
Not much, but it's fucking enough.
I yank the gaiter back up.
The fire comes back immediately, worse than before, like my nerves are punishing me for teasing them with freedom. I adjust the hood of my sweatshirt, pulling it forward, trying to shadow whatever the loose gaiter doesn't cover.
My hands are stiff as I text Whiskey back.
WRAITH
ok
That's all I can manage.
Two fucking weeks.
My tongue presses against the back of my teeth. The sharpened edges catch on the soft tissue, pricking my flesh in an instant reminder that every surface in my jaws is a fucking weapon.
Wade's throat gave under my bite like wet paper. I remember the copper flood across my tongue like it's happening right this second.
How easy it was.
How I almost didn't stop.
My eyes drift to Ivy's shoulder, and the four marks already layered there. Beautiful and deliberate, already healed in shimmering silver.
Mine wouldn't be a mark.
Mine would be a wound.
I lock the phone and shove it between my thigh and the armrest.
"What's wrong?" Ivy asks, already twisting around to look up at me.
She misses nothing. Never has.
I shake my head.
"Misha."
Fuck.
I point to her phone sticking out of her pocket.
She pulls it out and reads Whiskey's texts. Her eyebrows climb up, and she blinks, but then she types back to Whiskey. I try not to look at her screen, because it's hers, but my own lights up anyway since he texted the whole fucking group chat.
IVY
I can't wait!
I stare at her in shock, my hands already coming up. I could hurt you. We don't even know if it's safe.
"You won't."
You don't know that.
"I know you."
I shake my head harder, the motion pulling at the gaiter and sending another spike of pain through my jaw. My teeth are not like theirs. And I can't control the pressure. I don't have fucking lips to—
I stop signing because my hands are shaking.
Ivy catches them and folds my scarred fingers between her small, warm palms and squeezes them.
"That's what the trip to Cedarbrook is for, right?" she asks softly. "Your pain could even be because you didn't finish your appointment. Talk to your doctor. See what they say. And then we figure it out."
The tightness in my chest doesn't ease up, but I can't fully spiral into the dark with her in my lap like this.
I nod and she settles back against me, tucking herself into the curve of my chest, and pulls the blanket tighter. Below the tinted glass, the Ghosts and the Wasps line up on the ice.
"Best seat in the house," she announces, wiggling to get comfortable.
I huff through my nose.
She tips her head back against my collarbone to look up at me, grinning. "What? It is. I've got popcorn, a heated box, a blanket, and a giant alpha chair." She pats my thigh. "Premium and ergonomic."
You're ridiculous.
"And you love it."
I do.
My phone buzzes again.
WHISKEY
also thane says hi and to stop worrying
(he's totally worrying too btw)
we got this game don't stress
ok I gotta go hit shit now byeeeee
The crowd starts roaring as I'm finishing reading the texts. Below us, Thane skates to the net. Whiskey is already jawing at the Wasps' center across the face-off circle, and Plague glides past Valek with his stick low.
The puck drops and my body betrays me.
My hand twitches against the armrest and my weight shifts forward in the chair before I catch myself. Below, Whiskey wins the face-off and sends it back to Plague, and my legs tense as if the ice itself is calling me down from the fucking box.
The rest of the roster that isn't part of the core pack fills the gaps well enough, Whiskey's playing wider to compensate, burning more energy covering ground that used to be mine, and Plague's shifts run fifteen seconds longer than they should.
Valek is adjusting—he's sharp enough to read the gap and fill it—but it's not the same.
Nothing is the same without all five of us on the ice.
My fingers curl around the armrest until the metal frame groans.
I force them open.
Ivy crunches popcorn beside me, her attention on the ice below, but I can tell she isn't completely paying attention.
Maybe because I'm losing my fucking shit behind her.
"Hey," she says after a minute.
I look down at her with a soft questioning growl.
"The Cedarbrook trip. I've been thinking."
I tilt my head.
"Can you even drive right now?"
I hesitate before answering her honestly. I don't know.
"I could drive. It isn't like I have to hide anymore," she says.
"I mean, it's a long fucking drive, but that's fine.
" She sets the popcorn bucket aside and twists to face me completely, pulling her legs up and crossing them in my lap.
"I was thinking, though… are you sure you want it to just be us? "
I groan before I can stop it. A real, full-body groan that shakes the chair. My hands fly up. Yes. I'll lose the will to live if it's Whiskey and Plague. And Thane is too emotional.
"Thane isn't that emotional—"
He IS. I sign it emphatically. He hovers. He will look at me with his sad puppy eyes and—
I mime Thane's exact eyes, brow furrowed, trying to make my eyes as big and wet as I can, like I'm trying not to cry.
Ivy presses her lips together, fighting back laughter.
It's not funny.
"It's a little funny." She takes a deep breath, composing herself, and wipes her eyes. "Okay. No Thane." She taps her chin theatrically. "What about Valek?"
Oh.
This is where she was headed with it the whole time.
I hesitate, unsure.
"He's the opposite of emotional," she continues. "He'd just sit there and read a book and not ask you a single question about your feelings. Actually, he would love to never talk about feelings with anyone, ever. Trust me."
That's… actually accurate.
"And," she adds, grinning now, "from all the stories Whiskey has regaled about the Canada trip, Val is an excellent driver."
I manage a soft laugh at that.
She has a point. It would be safer for her. I bolted into the fucking woods last time.
Valek could handle me.
Maybe, I sign.
Ivy's grin softens into a smile that makes the constant fire in my jaw feel further away. She turns back around and sinks against my chest, pulling the team blanket up to her chin and retrieving the popcorn bucket.
Below us, the puck drops and Whiskey wins the face-off, sending it back to Plague.
For a few minutes, we just watch. And even from up here, even when I can't be down there, it makes me feel good to see my pack on the ice.
Ivy reaches into the bucket and holds a piece of popcorn up over her shoulder, offering it to me without turning around.
Just being sweet.
I stare at it.
She wiggles it.
But I can't.
The gaiter is on. And even if it weren't, I… can't. Not where she might be able to see it. I have no idea what I look like when I eat, but I'm sure it's fucking horrifying, and I've never let her watch.
Her hand stays up for another second.
Then it drops and she tosses the popcorn into the air, catching it in her mouth.
"More for me," she says.
Her voice is light.
But there's a sadness beneath it that she can't hide.
And the guilt is worse than any of the pain in my face.
Below us, Plague intercepts a pass and fires it across to Valek, who one-times it past the Wasps' goalie. We're going to lose, but the crowd erupts anyway. Ivy claps, whooping, and digs into the bucket for another handful.
I tap her shoulder.
"Yeah?" she asks, tilting her head back to look up at me. "Did you change your mind? It's really good."
She's already pinching up a single piece of popcorn between her fingers, holding it up to me, wiggling it in the air again like that makes it more appealing.
I swallow hard. My pulse is hammering so loud I'm sure she feels it even through the blanket and my shirt.
I reach up and hook the edge of the gaiter with one finger. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I pull it down below my jaw.
She's still batting her lashes up at me, happy and hopeful, and there isn't a hint of disgust there. She doesn't even flinch when she sees me anymore.
To her, somehow, it's just… my face.
I'm scared this will change that.
I lean forward slightly, my jaws parting. My tongue slides out through my teeth, the points grazing the softer underside, and the tip curls against her fingers and the popcorn.
I know it looks horrible.
She's staring at it, wide-eyed.
Wait. Why the fuck is she blushing?
I look away from her instinctively and catch a blurry glimpse in the tinted glass.
Jaws.
Open.
Exposed muscle stretching.
Sharp teeth glistening and a long tongue curling out between them like a fucking horror movie monster.
My brain fills with static.
My eyes squeeze shut.
I take the popcorn from her fingers blind, accidentally licking her hand in my frantic attempt to get it over with as fast as fucking possible, and swallow without chewing.
It gets stuck in my throat and I cough.
She says something I can't hear over the ringing in my ears and I feel her hands in my hair, both of them reaching up to stroke the strands, her nails scratching against my scalp.
"Good boy," she murmurs.
And I bury my face in her hair with an exhausted growl.