6. Ivy
Ivy
Thane squeezes Wraith's shoulder once, and then he's gone, disappearing down the fire escape.
And Wraith is left standing in the middle of the room like an alpha facing a firing squad while I lean against the bathroom doorway with steam curling around me, smiling innocently at him.
I watch him take me in hesitantly.
His eyes drop to my collarbone where a few stubborn soap bubbles still cling to my skin. I feel one of the bubbles sliding down between my breasts, and I watch those burning blue eyes track it with an intensity that makes my stomach flip before he jerks his gaze away.
Gods, he's so painfully aware of himself. Of what he thinks he is, versus what I actually see when I look at him.
I wish he hadn't put on another mask.
But I'm not surprised.
"Please?" I ask softly, because I know he's about to talk himself out of coming in here with me. I can see the war raging behind his eyes. They dart to the darker part of the loft, then to the window, then away again.
Anywhere but in my direction.
I see the exact moment he decides to come to me, with a weary sigh and sag of his shoulders, and he forces himself to walk.
I step back to give him space as he enters the bathroom. He's so impossibly huge, the space feels like a fucking closet now that he's in it.
"Hey." I put my hand on his arm, firm enough to anchor him. "Light on or off?"
He signs so fast his fingers blur. O-F-F.
"Okay."
I reach past him, and the brush of my arm against his chest makes him flinch. I flip the switch and the bathroom plunges into darkness. The only light left is a thin stripe leaking under the door from the loft, and there isn't much in there, so… that's saying something.
"Better?" I ask.
I can't really see him in the dark, but I can vaguely make out his shadow nodding.
I move closer, letting the towel drop from my body to the floor. I feel for him and my hands find his chest, the cotton of his shirt damp from the rain, heart thundering beneath the fabric under my palms.
"Can I?" I ask, curling my fingers into the hem and giving it an experimental tug.
A low growl, affirmative but anxious, rumbles through his chest.
I pull his shirt up, and he has to duck to help me get it over his head. Even standing on my tiptoes and with him bent forward, I can barely reach. The absurdity of our size difference would make me laugh if this moment wasn't so fragile.
He tenses up as my fingers follow the web of scars spreading across his collarbones and pecs. Some of it is smooth and taut. Some is textured and raised. All of it, warm and silky, almost like pearl.
"You're so strong," I murmur appreciatively. "All this muscle. It's like you're carved from stone."
He makes a doubtful rumbling sound, but there's no way he can disagree with that.
His hands brush my waist, his scarred palms hesitating even as I encourage him by leaning into his touch. He's so careful. So gentle with his hands that could crush me without even trying.
"Come on," I say, taking his hands and pulling him toward the shower. "Let's get the rain and camp dirt off us. I feel grody."
More wary rumbling.
The water is piping hot when I turn it on, and I adjust it until it's just above lukewarm. If his scars are anything like mine, they're sensitive to temperature changes, and what's comfortable on unscarred skin can hurt like a bitch in other places.
He has to duck slightly to fit under the showerhead, and most of the water hits his upper chest instead of the top of his head. His arm brushes mine and I feel the tremor that runs through his whole body. The panic trying to claw its way back in.
Not on my watch.
I reach for the shampoo and work it between my palms, then slide my fingers into his dark, choppy hair.
It's gritty with dirt from the forest, and I work through the strands methodically.
It's just long enough to tangle, and I work through the knots, scrubbing gently at his scalp, running my nails lightly against the base of his skull.
His massive shoulders sag slightly and his head tilts forward until the top of his head presses against my shoulder as he practically folds himself over to get closer to me.
A sound escapes him that I feel more than hear.
Half broken purr, half deep subwoofer growl, but he cuts it off almost as soon as it starts.
Like he's embarrassed.
"That's a good sound," I tell him, smiling. "You like that?"
His hands are braced against the shower wall, and I realize with a rush of fierce tenderness that he's practically melting. This massive, terrifying, feral alpha is leaning into my fingers like a giant dog getting scratched behind the ears.
I work the shampoo through the rest of his hair, scratching gently, letting him have this moment where someone touches him and it's safe.
He flinches when I move too quickly, and I'm just an omega.
It's clear he's been treated terribly, and he associates whatever happened with not having his face covered.
The thought of what he's been through makes my stomach churn.
I just really fucking wish he'd take his mask off. At least around me, when it's dark like this. The soaked fabric must be clinging to his face because he sounds like he's struggling to find a way to breathe comfortably through it.
"Wraith." My hands pause in his hair. "Your mask is drenched. You're basically waterboarding yourself."
He responds with a dismissive grunt.
Of course he'd rather suffocate.
"Can I take it off?" I ask carefully. "Before you, um, drown? We can keep the light off. I won't look. I just... I don't want you to pass out on me."
Or suffer, I think, but I don't add that, because he doesn't seem to mind suffering.
He shakes his head.
Okay. I won't push it.
When the last of the shampoo rinses clean and he straightens, I stretch up on my toes and press a kiss to his scarred collarbone. It's the highest point I can reach without him bending down.
"My turn," I say lightly. "Unless you want us to just stand under the water all day?"
He manages a huff and shifts aside, making room, and I step under the spray his body was blocking before. The warm water hits my face and I tilt my head back, letting it wash through my hair, down my neck, over my chest.
I can feel him watching me.
"You can touch me," I tell him. "I want you to."
His hands find my waist first, and then they start to move, still hesitant, as if he still isn't sure this is okay. Following the curve of my hips, the dip of my lower back, the softness of my stomach.
I arch into his touch with a soft sound I can't and don't try to hold back. His hands are massive and rough with scar tissue, callused from years of gripping a hockey stick, and they feel good.
I want to make sure he knows that.
He reaches for something on the shelf. I hear the click of a bottle, the wet sound of soap being worked between his palms. Then his lathered hands are on my shoulders, sliding down my arms.
He's washing me.
The way I washed him.
His movements are slow, almost reverent. He works the soap across my shoulder blades, massaging my upper back. My head falls forward with a soft purr as the tension releases.
"Wraith," I breathe, and his hands stutter against my skin. His name in my mouth does something to him, even as stressed as he is. I can feel the catch in his breathing, the way his whole body leans closer, then pulls away.
I have other ideas.
I turn in his arms, pressing my wet body against his, and feel his heart kick against my chest. Fast and hard and alive. My hands grip his muscled shoulders and I tilt my face up toward where I know his is.
"I like your hands on me," I whisper. "More."
His hands slide lower, hesitantly. Over my hips, the curve of my thighs. When his thumb brushes near my inner groin, my breath hitches and I dig my nails into his shoulders.
He nuzzles into the crook of my neck, and I feel the drenched mask slipping.
And I feel him reach up to fix it, too.
"Wraith, let me," I whisper.
He freezes as my hands slide up behind me to the soaking wet mask clinging to his lower face. The fabric flutters slightly with his breath. He's having to keep his mouth open slightly to breathe through it.
"Can I…?"
He doesn't stop me.
But when I reach the edge and start pulling it down, he pulls back, turning his face away. The movement makes the mask come down, the wet fabric pooling at his throat.
"See? It's fine. I can't even see in the dark."
A knock at the bathroom door makes us both jolt.
"Everything okay in there?" Thane's voice, muffled through the wood, carefully casual in a way that means he can absolutely tell what's happening.
Wraith goes rigid against me, already retreating. I catch his arm before he can disappear to the far side of the shower.
I have an idea.
An omega idea.
Bold and reckless and exactly right.
"Come in," I call to Thane. "But keep the light off."
The door opens. A brief wash of dim light from the loft spills across the bathroom floor, and Wraith flinches hard and turns away from me. Then Thane shuts it, and darkness swallows everything again.
"Ivy?" Thane's voice moves uncertainly through the steam. "What's going on? Why is it so fucking dark in here?"
I hear him inhale deeply.
He's scenting the air.
And I know exactly what he's picking up. The scents of an omega and her alpha who were about three seconds from doing something very, very good and stress-relieving.
"Get in the shower with us," I say, and I mean every word. "All of us need this."
Silence.
My hand finds Wraith's in the dark. I thread our fingers together and squeeze once. This is okay. Trust me.
Then the sound of clothes hitting the tile. Thane's shirt. His belt. Everything, piece by piece, dropped to the bathroom floor without argument.
His bulk fills the shower entrance, massive and warm, blocking the thin dull stripe of light from under the door. Even in total darkness, I can feel the sheer size of his presence.
The shower stall was barely big enough for Wraith and me.
Adding Thane turns it into an exercise in physics that probably shouldn't work but somehow does.
Except for the fact none of us is getting enough water because there's only one showerhead between two giant alphas and one omega half their size, sandwiched between them.
"Welcome," I say to Thane, teasing.
"You sure about this?" Thane asks, his voice low and rough.
He's asking both of us. I know that.
Wraith answers with a low rumble. A slightly uncertain rumble, but a rumble nonetheless.
My hands rise in the darkness, finding both alphas. One against Wraith's chest behind me, his scarred skin hot and heart pounding under my palm. The other pressed to Thane's broad chest, his heart racing just as fast as his brother's.
"You're both so tense," I observe, and it's almost laughable how much of an understatement that is. They're both wound so tight they're practically vibrating. "When's the last time either of you actually relaxed for a minute?"
The silence answers for them.
"That's what I thought." I let my hands move, purposeful now. Claiming. "Let me help."
I start with Thane because he's in front of me and because I think Wraith needs a moment to adjust to having another person this close while his face is exposed. Gods, the tension in Thane's broad shoulders could shatter concrete. I dig my thumbs into the knots of muscle, working them loose.
"Fuck, that's good," he groans, his head dropping forward, forehead bumping against the top of mine as I look up toward his silhouette.
I work along his trapezius, his deltoids, the thick bands of muscle running down either side of his spine.
He's built differently from Wraith. Wraith is massive, but leaner, almost sculpted.
Thane is big in his own right, but not impossibly, with the slightest layer of soft warmth over his solid bulk.
I turn my attention back to Wraith. My hands slide over the web of scars covering his chest, the hard planes of his abdomen, the ridges of muscle that flex and tighten under my palms. Then lower, over the V of his hips.
Wraith's cock is already hard when I reach it, and it twitches at my touch.
He lets out a low, uncertain rumble, planting his hand against the tiled shower wall to steady himself.
Thane's breathing has changed behind me, going shallow and rough, fighting for restraint like he still isn't sure this is what I want.
Both of these massive, powerful alphas, holding back because they'd rather suffer than pressure me.
And they're going to need me to be really fucking clear, or we're never going to get anywhere.
"I want both of you," I whisper, my hand traveling down Thane's thick waist and brushing against the base of his cock, where his knot is already partially swollen. "Right now."