Ivy
So, the Belmonts are… rich.
Stupid rich.
I knew this, on a surface level. And it isn't exactly a surprise, considering who Thane's father is in the hockey world, but still. Seeing a driveway long enough to have its own zip code boggles my brain.
The house itself is huge, a sprawling white colonial with black shutters and a lawn so perfect it looks fucking vacuumed. And in the backyard, just visible through the side gate, the rink from the photo that's always on my mind.
The rink behind two brothers, one of them already turning his face away from the camera.
Thane parks ahead of us. Through the back window, I can see Whiskey's silhouette gesturing wildly at Plague about something, Plague leaning away so he doesn't get concussed.
Valek kills the SUV's engine.
Behind me, Wraith's breathing is even and cautious. His hood is up, and he keeps fixing that because there isn’t a mask to adjust and he still has the tic.
He ate before we left because there was no fucking way he was going to eat at Thane’s parents’ house. We had to convince him to come. Surprisingly, it was Whiskey he listened to.
Why? Because Whiskey promised we’d get a cat, specifically the stray cat we see once in a while near the pack house. But only if we all went tonight.
Wraith and Whiskey have been trying to pet this cat for as long as I've been here with no luck, so how they're going to actually catch her and keep her in the house remains to be seen, but a promise is a promise.
I twist around in my seat. "Hey."
Wraith's eyes find mine.
"You don't have to do this."
He huffs, signing. I'm fine. Promise.
His hands are steady when he signs it, but his knee is bouncing hard enough to shake the whole SUV.
Thane told me before we left that his mom has only ever seen Wraith's face once, by accident, and she sobbed for hours. Sobbed until she made herself sick, actually, while Wraith hid in the broom closet and heard all of it.
He made sure there was never a second time.
"Okay," I say, unbuckling. "Then let's do this. I'll do the talking, Valek will do the charming, and you just stand there being seven feet of mysterious boyfriend material."
He softens. I can do that.
"I know you can. It's what you're best at."
Valek opens my door before I can and offers his hand like we're arriving at a gala instead of a meet-the-parents dinner I might genuinely throw up during. Hopefully not at the table.
Wraith unfolds from the back seat behind me, slow, enormous, keeping the SUV between himself and the house for an extra moment.
We head up to the porch like the ragtag pack we are. Whiskey at the front for some reason, Thane annoyed behind him, Plague and Valek a few feet back, and Wraith and me bringing up the rear because he looks like he's about to be sick.
Thane's mother is already coming out to the porch. She's a tiny omega. Like, my-sized tiny, which is hilarious given the sheer size of Thane. She has silver-streaked dark hair and a cute green blouse that I know cost an arm and a leg.
Oh boy. I hope I'm not underdressed in my sweater and jeans.
"Hi, Mrs. Belmont," I say, suddenly not sure what I'm supposed to call her.
"Ivy," she says with a giant smile, wrapping me in a hug before I've fully climbed the steps. "Oh, look at you. You're even prettier than on the—"
Her eyes lift over my shoulder.
Her smile stays exactly where it is, suddenly nailed in place, while everything behind it freezes. Her eyes skate across Wraith's exposed jaw, his teeth, the scarred muscle where cheeks should be, and then flee upward to his worried blue eyes and cling there.
Wraith goes still behind me.
"Wraith," she says softly.
She crosses the porch to him, reaching up, way up. For a second, he doesn't move, but then he bends down so she can wrap her arms around his neck. His hands hover behind her back before carefully resting on her lower back, but barely.
"I'm so glad you came," she whispers.
She's not looking at his face while she says it. She's got her cheek pressed to his chest, eyes screwed shut tight, and I don't think she knows I can see the tear she blinks away before she pulls back.
"Maureen," she says to me, with a slight sniff. "None of that Mrs. Belmont business. And that's Arthur lurking in the hall pretending he wasn't watching through the curtains."
"I was checking the weather," Arthur Belmont says from the entryway.
"There are apps for that, Arthur!" she tells him.
I would recognize him instantly, even if I hadn't seen him in countless photos.
He's clearly Thane's father. Arms crossed, feet planted, his face carved from the same granite as his son.
The NHL Commissioner is gray at the temples and shorter than I was expecting, which makes the size difference between Thane and his mom even funnier because I have no idea where his height came from, but that doesn't keep his handshake from feeling like I'm shaking a goalie glove.
"Ivy. A pleasure," he says.
He claps Thane on the back next, then turns to Wraith, and his jaw does the same clenching thing Thane's does when he's absorbing a hit and refusing to show it.
"Son," he says roughly.
Wraith's hand comes up. Sir.
"He says hi, sir," Whiskey translates even though I'm sure they know sign language, wedging through the door with the subtlety of a forklift.
"Okay, well, he said 'sir,' but the hi was implied.
Holy shit, your house is nice. Is that a real fireplace?
Plague, look, it's even got a little fire shovel!
That's so fuckin' cute! We need a fireplace.
I could knock out one of the walls no problem. "
"We're already getting a cat," Thane says tiredly. "We don't need a fireplace."
Whiskey hums. "I kinda think we do need a fireplace, bro."
The house is even nicer on the inside, somehow. There are family photos everywhere in perfect custom frames, beautiful hardwood floors, ceilings with moulding, and a chandelier hanging in the entryway that's the size of my fucking nest.
Freaking nest.
Better watch my language, even in my head, before it slips out. They clearly come from old money, and Maureen seems… fragile.
The dining room could seat twenty. There are eight of us, so Maureen has us clustered at one end of a long table covered in lit candles and cloth napkins folded into little fans.
Monogrammed cloth napkins.
Jeans were the wrong choice.
Wraith stops in the doorway.
I can practically see him trying to figure out which chair looks the sturdiest, which wall he should have his back against, and which exit is closest all in the blink of an eye, and then he just… looms.
Hood up and shadowing everything except his scars and sharp teeth, hands in his pockets, over seven feet of gorgeous, terrified alpha suddenly pretending to study a painting of a sailboat he's surely seen plenty of times before.
"Wraith, you're at the end here, next to Thane," Maureen says, patting the back of a solid oak chair at the corner of the table. "I had Arthur bring in the one from his office. It's a very good chair. Perfect for giant alphas."
"I'm a giant alpha," Whiskey teases, sidling up. "You got another?"
Maureen pushes his arm playfully. "No, Whiskey."
Whiskey starts "testing" one of the normal chairs and talking about how he thinks it's going to break and he's going to get impaled up his ass by a chair leg, which makes Maureen turn alternating red and purple colors like a chameleon, effectively distracting everyone else while Wraith crosses the room slowly and lowers himself into the oak chair.
The rest of us find seats. I take the seat next to Wraith's with Thane on the other side of the table, Arthur at the head. Whiskey makes a big show of easing himself into his chair a millimeter at a time. Plague and Valek help Maureen with the food, even though Maureen tried to talk them out of it.
Valek just took the roast from her hands with a smooth "I insist," and Maureen practically melted into a heart-eyed puddle of goo while Arthur grumbled jealously.
I'm both surprised and not surprised Valek is so helpful. Something about the platinum-haired alpha wearing oven mitts to help get the pot roast out of the oven is fucking adorable, actually.
FREAKING, Ivy. Get it together.
The table is covered in food within minutes. There's the pot roast of course, roasted vegetables, spongy fresh bread I lock onto above everything else, a salad peppered with candied nuts. And in front of Wraith, Maureen sets a wide ceramic bowl of thick soup with a stainless steel straw.
"Potato leek," she says briskly, still not making eye contact with him, although I don't know how she could anyway with him being so cautious with his hood. "Thane, um, reminded me you don't like meat, and I thought… well. I hope it's not too much salt."
Wraith stares at the bowl, then at her, and signs a subtle thank you, tapping his fingers against his chin.
Maureen waves it off and flees to her seat, and everyone digs in because Whiskey's already started and they can tell the pot roast is under direct threat.
Wraith picks up the bowl after a few minutes, and I try not to pay attention to his long tongue visible in the corner of my eye, because I'll blush if I do and give myself away.
He parts his jaws to slip the steel straw between his teeth and presses it against the roof of his mouth with his tongue so he can drink.
Even though no one is paying attention to him, I feel the anxious hyperawareness rolling off him just as well as I could if we had a physical bond. Every clink of silverware makes his shoulders twitch.
So I do the only thing that ever works.
I pick up my plate, scoot it over next to his bowl, and sit down in his lap.
Arthur pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth, eyebrows climbing, staring at us. Maureen almost drops the gravy.
"It's an omega thing," I announce, settling in and pulling my plate closer across the tablecloth. "It's… a traditional practice where I'm from."
"Where are you from?" Maureen asks immediately.
Shit. Probably shouldn't have tacked that on.
"Canada?" I lie.