Valek
Wraith's SUV handles like a fucking tank.
I'm certain it could survive a direct hit from a missile and keep rolling, unscathed. It isn't to my usual taste, but he wouldn't fit in my BMW, and Ivy is by my side in the passenger's seat, so what's there to complain about, really?
I still can't believe he asked me to come. I'm not exactly road trip material.
Ivy's flipping through a playlist on her phone. She's wearing one of Wraith's hoodies, the black one with the fraying cuffs—which, to be fair, describes most of them—and it swallows her entirely.
"No," I say.
She hasn't even pressed play yet.
"You don't know what I picked."
"Whiskey curated it, so the answer is no."
She grins and presses play anyway.
Country music fills the cabin.
I reach for the volume.
She smacks my hand away.
Behind us, Wraith takes up the entire back seat. His knees are jammed against the passenger seat, his head propped against the window, and his arms are crossed over his chest. He isn't wearing anything over his lower face, but the windows are tinted enough no one can see him back there anyway.
He's in worse pain today.
Has been since we left.
I have my suspicions it's because he spent several hours in a mask yesterday, watching the team get humiliated on the ice.
The highway opens up ahead of us, flat and mostly empty. Late morning traffic thinned out twenty minutes ago, and now it's just us, a handful of semis, and the occasional minivan going ten under the speed limit. I settle into the left lane and let the speedometer climb.
Ivy switches the music to a tolerable playlist. One Whiskey didn't choose. I prefer silence, but this isn't exactly my drive.
An hour and a half in, my bladder decides it's had enough of pretending I don't drink tea like it's oxygen.
And Wraith doesn't look well. His glazed eyes are open slightly, staring off into nothing, his jaw clenched so tight the tendons are strained in his throat. Every few seconds his scarred hand twitches against his crossed arm, and I've noticed him slumping in the seat more over the past few minutes.
"We're stopping," I announce.
Ivy looks up from her phone. "Food?"
"Yes. And I need to stretch my legs."
I take the next exit.
The gas station that materializes at the bottom of the ramp looks, frankly, post-apocalyptic.
Present-apocalyptic, really. The canopy over the pumps is rusted through, the parking lot is one large pothole overgrown with weeds, and a handwritten sign curling from alternating rain and sun is taped to one of the pumps that reads OUT OF ORDOOR.
Close enough.
I pull up to the side of the building and kill the engine. "Wraith. We're stopped."
Nothing.
His breathing is shallow, which is concerning, and I watch him for a moment. He's alright. It's the deliberate type of shallow breathing. His pain is worsening.
Perhaps it's because the road quality is degrading the closer we get to Cedarbrook. The bumps and potholes have to hurt his face.
"We'll be quick," Ivy says softly, unbuckling her seatbelt. She twists around to reach back and squeezes his knee. "You want anything?"
His hand comes up to sign slowly. Water.
"Done."
She doesn't ask him if he wants to come inside.
Neither do I.
The cowbell above the door jangles as we push through. I try not to breathe through my nose. It reeks in here. Reeks of piss and bleach, specifically, and even with all the bleach smell and a moldy mop propped up in a puddle in the corner, there still manages to be vomit on the peeling linoleum.
"Charming," I mutter.
"You sound like Plague."
"I'm going to pretend that wasn't an insult."
She snorts, looking around with her nose wrinkled. "Still have to piss?"
"Magically, I do not."
Ivy grabs a basket from the stack by the door and immediately veers toward the candy aisle. "Come on, then. Snacks."
I follow, eyes flicking over the shelves. The selection is… grim, at least as far as normal things go. They certainly have a selection of chips. These are flavors that shouldn't exist.
Cajun pineapple shrimp chips?
Kill me.
Ivy ignores the chips entirely and drifts toward the snack sticks, scanning the pegs. Most of them are various types of jerky in aggressive packaging. Beef. Ostrich. Bison. Turkey. Flames, skulls, a buff cartoon bull flexing its biceps that reminds me of Whiskey.
She bypasses all of them and crouches, reaching for the bottom peg.
"For Wraith." She holds up a package of mushroom jerky. "He doesn't eat meat."
I arch an eyebrow. "Some 'monster.'"
Ivy's hand stills halfway to putting the jerky in the basket. "Yeah," she says quietly.
She picks up the remaining two packages of the mushroom jerky, then a bag of dried mango, dropping them into the basket without really looking at them.
"He's getting worse," I say.
"I know." She turns into the drink aisle, loading the basket with water bottles and colorful drinks. "He couldn't keep the gaiter on for the full game yesterday, and we were in public. So."
She grabs some ginger ale.
"He had a piece of fucking popcorn and then dissociated. Like he'd survived a bombing."
I take the basket from her because it's getting heavy and she's tiny. She lets me, murmuring a thanks before heading deeper into the aisles.
She really must be worried if she isn't insisting she can carry it on her own.
"What happens," I say carefully, following her, "if the doctor tells him he can't wear a mask anymore?"
Ivy stops walking.
"He'll go completely feral," she says quietly. "That's what Plague's afraid of. We were talking this morning. If he can't cover his face, he'll isolate completely. And feral alphas who isolate…"
She doesn't finish.
I don't think she can.
The cashier behind the register is watching us carefully, eyes pinched beneath the brim of his trucker cap. Watching me, specifically. I ignore him. It's nothing I'm not used to.
"We're not going to let that happen," I tell her.
She looks up at me. "You sound pretty sure."
"I am. We'll put a cute little harness on you that says Emotional Support Omega and hand him the leash. He won't be able to resist."
The worry in her eyes softens and she bumps her shoulder against my arm as we walk to the register together.
The cashier starts ringing up our collection, his eyes traveling from the items to me. Not even bothering to hide it. His eyes linger on my platinum hair, then the scratches still healing on my forearms.
He pauses on the mushroom jerky.
"Where you from?" he asks me.
"Canada," I say pleasantly, with my very best smile.
He snorts. "You don't sound like you're from Canada."
My smile curls and pulls into a slight sneer before I school it into a thin line.
When Whiskey harasses me about this—and he has, multiple times, in multiple creative variations—it rolls off. Whiskey is a golden retriever chasing every tennis ball of curiosity that bounces past his field of vision. There's no malice in it.
This man isn't Whiskey.
This man is looking at my face the way border agents do.
And Ivy is looking at him like she's about to start biting and adding to her finger count. "What's your problem?" she asks. "Seriously."
I give her an impressed once-over.
The cashier stares at her for a second, then mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like bitch.
I lean my forearm on the counter and tilt my head. "What was that, suka?"
His mouth quivers and he keeps his eyes locked on the order, suddenly finding himself unable to look up.
"$19.36," he mumbles.
I drop a twenty on the counter, collect the bag, and don't wait for change.
Ivy catches up with me at the door. "You okay?"
"Perfectly fine."
I hold the door open for her. She ducks under my arm with a cute little "thanks," already trotting briskly to the SUV. I follow, watching her open the back door on Wraith's side.
He's in the same position, slumped with his arms crossed, eyes half-open and tired. The strained breathing hasn't improved.
"Hey," Ivy says gently, holding up a water bottle. "Drink."
His hand comes up slowly and takes it.
I set the grocery bag on the passenger seat and lean against the side of the SUV, watching through the open rear door.
Wraith unscrews the cap.
And he doesn't turn away or angle his body to hide.
I watch in surprise as he tips his head back, parts his jaws, and pours the water directly into the back of his open mouth.
Like a dragon would. Some of it runs out through his sharp teeth, trickling down his scarred jaw and soaking his shirt.
He drops the bottle on the floor at his boots when he's done and lets his head fall back against the headrest with a soft, shaky growl of a sigh.
He's either too deep in pain to care about the performance of normalcy, or he's stopped performing entirely.
I'm not sure which is worse.
Ivy is staring at him in utter shock, and I know it isn't because the brave little omega is disturbed. She reaches over and adjusts the collar of his hoodie where water soaked through, as if that might help.
He lets her, or perhaps he doesn't notice.
"I got you jerky," she says softly. "Mushroom and black pepper. Your favorite."
He manages a faint nod. Thanks.
She watches him for another second, then reaches down and rests her palm on his forearm. I catch her holding her breath and subtly pressing her fingertips against his pulse point before turning to me.
Through our fresh bond, I feel her fear as if it's mine.
"Actually," she says, "I'm going to sit in the back. If that's okay."
"I'm already mourning my co-pilot," I say somberly.
She manages another grin, already climbing over Wraith to get to the other seat. "You'll survive."
I close the door behind her and slide behind the wheel, adjusting the mirror so I can see the back seat better. In the reflection, Ivy is buckling herself up beside Wraith. She tucks herself under his arm, pulls his hand into her lap, and laces their fingers together.
I adjust the mirror back.
Some things aren't mine to watch.
The Cedarbrook exit is marked by a faded green sign peppered with buckshot holes.
How cute.