Wraith
The shower water hits my face gaiter so fucking hard, I'm drowning myself standing up.
Still won't take it off.
Not even alone, where no one can see me.
The fabric clings to every exposed ridge of bone and muscle, suctioning against my sharp teeth like shrink wrap on a nightmare.
Every breath is a battle.
Inhale through wet fabric.
Choke slightly.
Pull the gaiter away from my mouth just enough to get air.
Let it snap back against my face.
Repeat.
This is fine.
This is absolutely not fine, but I've been lying to myself for years.
What's one more morning?
Steam billows around me, piping hot. The industrial-strength scent neutralizer burns my scarred skin where it touches, stripping away any trace of honeysuckle and summer rain.
Any trace of her.
I rubbed my skin fucking raw and bleeding trying to erase the best thing that's ever happened to me. The neutralizer made my skin sensitive and the roughest exfoliator I could find did the rest of the damage.
What hurts the most is that I can't even fucking text her.
Ivy's in the crowd right now, somewhere in that sea of strangers, wearing her disguise, hiding in plain sight like she planned. My phone's in the soap caddy just in case she texts me.
We're not supposed to communicate with her unless it's an emergency.
But fuck, if she breaks the rules first…
I yank the gaiter away from my mouth—jaws—teeth—whatever again, suck in air, let it snap back. Water runs into my eyes. My palms are pruning wherever they're unscarred.
But I can still smell her on me.
Or maybe I'm imagining it.
Maybe I want to smell her so badly my brain is manufacturing ghost scents to torture me.
Wouldn't be the first time my brain fucked with me.
"Wraith!" Whiskey's voice booms from somewhere in the shower room. "You drown in there, big guy?"
I growl in response. Low. Annoyed.
The universal language of leave me alone.
"Cool, cool. Just checking you're alive and haven't steamed yourself to death. Your bro's having conniptions about how we gotta be out and dressed in ten for the media circus. And, uh… I gotta talk to you first."
What?
Why does he want to talk to me?
I turn off the water and stand there for a moment, dripping, the gaiter plastered to my face.
When I pull on a new dry gaiter and a gray undershirt and step out, the locker room air hits me hard enough to make my head sick.
The competing scents of alphas who've all been scrubbing ourselves raw are now mixed with the harshest soaps and neutralizers we could find, drowning out every last hint of Ivy.
Whiskey has managed to make himself bleed almost as much as I am—enough that red droplets are already showing through the fabric of my undershirt—and he doesn't even have the damaged scar tissue as an excuse.
I'm absolutely miserable.
And I miss her.
"Hey, Valek." Whiskey's voice cuts through my brooding. "C'mere. Gotta test something."
Valek arches an eyebrow. "I don't like the sound of that."
"Probably not, but do it anyway." Whiskey grabs Plague by the arm and drags him toward Valek. Plague's legs lock up and he goes rigid. "Smell him."
Plague's pale eyes narrow dangerously as he shoves off Whiskey. "Excuse me?"
"Smell. Him." Whiskey gestures between them like a deranged matchmaker. "We need to make sure we got all of Ivy's scent off. Valek hasn't been around her for more than a few minutes, so he's basically a clean control group. Science, bro."
"That's not how science works," Plague grits out.
"Sure it is. Valek, smell Plague."
Valek's lips curl into something that's not quite a smile. "Gladly."
Before Plague can react, Valek leans in close. Too close. His nose brushes Plague's throat, right where the scent glands are. He breathes in deep and I watch Plague's entire body lock up like someone shoved a live wire up his spine.
"What the fuck—" Plague growls, shoving at Valek's chest.
Valek gives a low chuckle and steps back. "Interesting," he says, meeting Plague's furious, indignant gaze. "You still smell like her. Faintly. I wouldn't smell it if my nose weren't buried in your neck."
Plague's face flushes an impressive shade of red above the surgical mask.
"Wait." Whiskey's voice shifts. "What do you mean interesting?"
Valek finally steps back, that not-smile still playing on his lips. "I mean exactly what I said. He smells like the omega. And it's..." He pauses, head tilting. "Pleasant."
"Pleasant?" Whiskey takes a step forward like a bull about to put Valek through the wall. "You're saying you like the way our omega smells on Plague?"
"I'm saying I find it appealing, yes." Valek's tone is casual. Deliberately so. Like he's not standing in the middle of a pack of territorial alphas who all scent-matched the same omega. "Is that a problem?"
Whiskey's jaw tightens.
I've been so wrapped up in my own misery that I didn't notice it before, but now that I'm looking, his usual easy grin has a brittle edge.
Why?
Before I can even begin to figure out what the fuck is going on, Thane steps between them. "Enough. Both of you," he grits out. "We have a game in less than an hour. Save the posturing for the ice."
Valek backs off with a slight shrug. Whiskey holds his ground for a moment longer, something dark flickering behind his eyes, before he turns away with a muttered curse.
I go to my locker for a fresh shirt—a black one that won't show so much fucking blood—and catch Whiskey's gaze as he passes.
What's wrong? I sign to him.
He pauses and opens his mouth, then shuts it and scratches at the back of his head. "It's about the fan chat."
What? I sign, tilting my head in confusion.
He takes a deep breath and turns fully to face me. "They… uh… fuck, I don't know if there's time to even get into it right now. You were in the shower for a long fucking time, bro."
I don't change in front of anyone, but the chance this has something to do with Ivy changes my mind.
Is it about Ivy? I sign, peeling off my gray tank, trying to ignore Whiskey's shocked eyes on my raw, bloodied scars.
"Bro, did you use a cheese grater as a fucking loofah?" he croaks.
I narrow my eyes at him, pulling on a fresh black shirt that blood won't show through. Answer my question.
He shakes his head like he's trying to clear out his mind. "No. No, it doesn't have to do with Ivy."
So I changed in front of him for nothing.
Great.
I heave a tired sigh—tired because I didn't fucking sleep last night, all I could do was stare at Ivy as she slept in bed, alone, not in my arms or anywhere near me, with fresh sheets and blankets that don't have my scent on them—and sign back stiffly.
Then I don't care right now.
I start pulling on my actual uniform.
Whiskey hesitates, chewing his cheek worriedly. "It's about you."
I glance back at him, frowning. What do you mean?
"Whiskey. Wraith. We gotta go," Thane's voice carries from across the locker room. "Time to face the music."
Whiskey swallows whatever he was about to tell me like he's swallowing rocks and lets out a nervous chuckle. "You don't gotta sound so fuckin' menacing, bro," he calls back to Thane, lumbering in his direction. He drags a hand through his hair with a glance back at me that looks…
Worried?
By the time we're dressed and heading toward the tunnel, the "media circus" as Whiskey calls it is already in full swing.
Cameras flash.
Voices shout questions.
The usual chaos of game day multiplied by the rivalry factor.
Ghosts versus Demons.
The matchup everyone's been waiting for.
If only they knew what else is at stake.
A cluster of reporters surrounds us the moment we step out of the locker room. Microphones shoved in faces. Questions fired like bullets.
"Thane! How are you feeling about tonight's matchup?"
"Whiskey! Any comment on the rumors about your shoulder injury?"
"Plague! Sources say you've been distracted lately. Care to elaborate?"
I hang back like always, letting the others field the questions. Reporters don't usually bother with me. Not worth it to try to conduct an interview with a terrifying feral alpha who communicates through growls and sign language.
But today...
Today something's different.
The reporters keep glancing at me. Quick, furtive looks that they think I don't notice. Whispered conversations that cut off when I turn my head. The usual nervous energy that surrounds me has intensified into something else.
Fear, yes.
But also curiosity.
Hungry curiosity.
Like they know something I don't.
The gaiter feels tighter against my face, even though I'm more than used to them by now. I scan the crowd of media personnel, trying to identify the source of the shift, but everyone's studiously avoiding direct eye contact with me.
Whiskey's working the crowd like usual with his booming laughs and charm, but there's something forced about it.
His timing's off.
His jokes fall flat.
He keeps sneaking glances in my direction, like he's trying to find a way to pry himself away from the crowds to finish our conversation.
Hamming it up is his favorite activity.
Something isn't just off.
Something is fucking wrong.
A pair of fans with backstage passes approach, gushing about autographs and photos. It distracts Thane, Plague, and Whiskey enough that they don't notice Valek stepping away from the group.
I do.
I growl to Whiskey, pointing after him.
Plague wastes no time calling out to Valek, already walking after him. "Where are you going?" he asks, his voice carrying that sharp edge he uses when he's trying to sound commanding instead of concerned.
Valek doesn't even look back. "To have a few words with my old teammates."
"Valek—"
Now he turns.
"Be careful," Plague tells him. "Don't fuck up."
"I won't."
Then he's gone, slipping through the crowd of reporters like a ghost, heading toward wherever the Demons are warming up.
I glance to Thane.
He shakes his head at me. Leave it.
So we let him go.
Not like we can physically stop him anyway.
"Shit," Whiskey mutters under his breath. "This is gonna end great."