21. Ivy
Ivy
The world has stopped making sense.
My brain keeps trying to process what I just watched.
The JumboTron keeps cutting between shots. First, it was my mate's bleeding face. Then him mauling Wade, and Valek finishing Wade with a stomp to Wade's knee that split the armor and spilled blood all over the ice.
Then Wade's crumpled body loaded onto a stretcher, his face slack with shock and pain, the confident golden-boy mask completely shattered.
And then… my mate, again.
Standing alone on the ice like the last survivor of an apocalypse, his massive frame heaving with each breath, eyes flat and gray except for the lingering feral light flashing blue behind one pupil.
Blood—his and Wade's, now—coats his entire lower face, dripping from his jaw, splattering the ice at his skates. His hand hovers near his face, fingers twitching, reaching for a mask that isn't there.
Around me, the crowd is still losing its mind.
A guy three seats down is laughing, actually laughing, while his girlfriend shrieks at him to stop. Someone else is crying. A child, I think.
Multiple children.
The sound tears at my already raw nerves.
"Holy shit, did you get that on video?"
"This is the best fuckin' game I've ever been to!"
"That monster should be put down!"
I'm on my feet before I consciously decide to move.
Security is swarming the ice now, escorting players toward the tunnels. My phone buzzes against my thigh and I yank it from my pocket, expecting Whiskey or maybe Thane…
Unknown number.
UNKNOWN
You don't need to hide anymore.
Come down.
I'll get you to your mate.
- V
My fingers fly across the screen even as I'm shoving past the couple blocking my row.
IVY
Is this Valek? How the fuck did you get my number?
UNKNOWN
Yes
Whiskey doesn't have a passcode on his phone. You should fix that.
Tunnel where we last met.
Two minutes.
Two minutes.
I can do that.
The crowd is chaos incarnate. Fans streaming toward exits, others frozen in their seats, some still staring at the JumboTron like they can't look away from the carnage.
The current carnage on the screen is my suffering mate.
I shoulder through a group of shell-shocked fans, ignoring someone yelling at me for shoving past them.
Valek is already there, leaning against the wall like he didn't just systematically dismantle another player on national television. His bone-white hair is disheveled from the game, a few strands falling across his forehead, but his expression is serene.
Like destroying Wade Kelly's knee was just another item on his to-do list.
"You came," he says, pleasantly, for some reason.
"You're fucking insane," I counter, already moving. "Let's go."
He pushes off the wall and falls into step beside me, his longer stride eating up the distance. I have to practically jog to keep up, my sneakers slapping against the concrete floor.
"Why are you helping me?" The question comes out breathless, half from exertion and half from the adrenaline still screaming through my veins. "I'm supposed to be hiding. If someone sees me down here—"
"That's why we didn't ask our dear leader." Valek grins at me over his shoulder. "Better to ask forgiveness than permission, after all, yes?"
The tunnel twists and turns, familiar landmarks flashing past. The vending machine where Wraith first found me. The shower room where I nearly took Valek's head off with a fire extinguisher. The equipment storage closet where, just hours ago, I held my mate through a panic attack.
I'm going to be sick.
We round the final corner, and Valek pushes open the locker room door.
The first thing I notice is the smell of blood, and the second is the sound of loud, anxious voices overlapping and equipment clattering. The Coach is having a meltdown somewhere, but I don't see him.
The third thing I notice is Thane's face changing when he sees me.
"What the fuck?" He's on his feet instantly. "Ivy, you shouldn't be down here. It isn't safe—"
"Relax, Captain." Valek sounds utterly unbothered, waving him off. "Wade is busy."
Whiskey snorts from somewhere to my left. "Yeah, busy getting a fuckin' catheter shoved up every hole."
Plague's voice cuts in from across the room. "They don't catheterize—"
"Let me fuckin' dream, man!"
Any other time, I might laugh.
But all I care about right now is Wraith.
He's sitting on a bench against the far wall, hunched forward, shoulders drawn up, head bowed.
His hands are covering his face.
Shielding. Hiding. Even now.
Blood seeps between his fingers, dripping onto the floor between his skates. The trainers hover nearby, medical kits in hand, but they're keeping their distance, shooting nervous glances at each other like they're drawing straws to see who has to approach first.
I'm going to him before anyone can object, planting my hands on his shoulders and climbing into his lap.
A broken growl rumbles in his chest.
I settle against him, straddling his waist and wrapping my arms around his neck, fingers tangling in the back of his blood-matted hair.
"I'm here," I whisper against his ear. "It's okay."
For a long moment, he doesn't react at all.
And then his hands are dropping from his face and his arms are flying around me, crushing me against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, his sharp teeth pressing against my skin because he's too far gone right now to think to be gentle, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he inhales my scent.
A purr starts in my chest, muffled because I can barely breathe. I focus on intensifying it, rumbling against him to soothe him. His grip loosens just enough for me to take in a full breath again.
"Just breathe," I murmur, running my fingers through his hair, scraping my nails against his scalp. "I'm not going anywhere. Promise."
Footsteps approach. The trainer, I think, judging by the hesitant sound of blades tapping the floor and nervous gulping.
"Give 'em a minute," Whiskey says. "He's not gonna hurt her."
"He just—" The trainer's voice cracks with fear.
"He's not gonna hurt her."
The footsteps retreat.
I keep purring. Keep stroking Wraith's hair. Keep murmuring soft, meaningless sounds against his ear while his massive hands span my entire back, holding me like I'm the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
Maybe I am.
"Ivy."
Plague sounds like he's right beside me.
I feel Wraith tense beneath me, a low growl building in his chest.
"It's just Plague," I whisper to him. "He wants to help."
The growl doesn't stop, but it doesn't escalate either.
That's… progress, I guess.
I turn my head slightly to find Plague standing a few feet away, a medical kit in his hands. His usual surgical mask is in place again, but his eyes above it are softer than I've ever seen them.
"He needs treatment," Plague says quietly. "And I don't think he's going to agree to go to a hospital."
Wraith's arms tighten around me and he presses harder into my shoulder like he's trying to disappear.
"I know." I shift slightly in his lap, creating space for Plague to work without actually moving away. "Can you do it here? With me like this?"
Plague's eyebrow arches above his mask. Then he nods once and steps closer.
The first touch of antiseptic-soaked gauze against Wraith's face makes him jerk back so hard his skull cracks against the locker. A panicked snarl rips from his throat and his hands fly up to shove Plague away. Or attack him.
"Wait—" I grab Wraith's wrists before he can make contact. "Wait, wait, wait. It's okay. It's just Plague."
But Wraith's breathing has gone ragged again, chest heaving, and the tremors have starting back up in his arms.
"Maybe not his face," I say quietly to Plague. "Not yet. Can you clean up his hands first?"
Plague's eyes flick between us like I'm at the vet with my pet lion. Then he nods and shifts his attention to Wraith's bloodied knuckles instead.
It takes three failed attempts before Wraith stops flinching at every touch.
"I know," I say again, pressing my forehead against his. "I know it sucks. But Plague's gentle, okay? He's your packmate. Just breathe through it."
He tries. He tries so fucking hard. This alpha is so touch-starved, even being touched by his packmate like this makes him jolt. Like he thinks the next touch might be a strike.
Plague finishes with Wraith's hands and sets down the gauze. His eyes go to Wraith's face, taking in the split scar tissue, the blood still seeping down his jaw.
"I need to suture this," he says quietly. "The scarring split deep when that asshole hit him."
Wraith goes rigid and lets out another broken growl. His hands come up, shaking, signing fast and jerky. I only catch fragments. He hasn't gone completely feral, somehow, but he's feral enough it's fucking with his ability to communicate.
No. Can't. Not right now. Too much. Wait—
"Hey. Hey, hey, hey…" I reach for his hands.
His hands falter, then drop. He presses his palms against his eyes like he can block out a million strangers watching him in high definition.
"I know. I'm so sorry," I whisper, wrapping my arms around his upper back again and clutching him. I meet Plague's concerned pale eyes over Wraith's shoulder. "Can I do it? You could talk me through it, right?"
He shakes his head. "The sutures need to be precise or it could get worse. I've done this before." A pause. "I was in medical school. Um. Before."
"What happened?" I ask, hoping some smalltalk will help distract Wraith. He isn't looking right now, but Plague is already prepping the suture kit and I don't want him to see the needles. His medical trauma runs deep.
"I made a mistake," Plague mumbles, not looking at me.
"A mistake?" I repeat, surprised. Plague doesn't seem capable of mistakes.
His pale eyes flick to mine as he threads the needle. "It wasn't an academic mistake," he mutters, and that's the end of that.
Fair enough.
"This will sting," Plague warns gently.
Wraith's hands grip my back harder. The needle slides into the split scar above his upper teeth and his whole body jerks, a snarl tearing from his throat.
"I know." I stroke his hair. "You're doing good. Breathe."