Ivy
I'm sitting in Wraith's lap at the kitchen table because he won't let go of me, and I don't want him to.
His chin rests on my shoulder, his massive arms circled around my waist, and his breathing is slow and soft against my neck. He hasn't signed anything since we migrated from the nest to the kitchen twenty minutes ago.
Hasn't eaten, of course. Hasn't moved at all except to tighten his grip a fraction when I shifted to reach my coffee.
He's here. That's what matters.
Just… on low-power mode.
Like a phone at two percent that keeps the screen dark to survive.
The coffee was already brewed when we stumbled in. A full pot, still hot, the good beans from Plague's private stash—he has a lot of private stashes of nice things, it seems—ground to just the right coarseness.
Valek's at the far end of the table with a mug of tea, because I guess he doesn't really like coffee.
He's reading on his phone, or pretending to, his platinum hair still damp from his shower and pushed back from his forehead. The wound on his temple from where I bludgeoned him with a fire extinguisher is already a pale thin scar.
He hasn't said a word to anyone.
I'm actually pretty sure he's the one who made the coffee because Plague was showering when the coffee materialized, and I don't think Thane or Whiskey would dare to touch Plague's stash.
I hear the last time Whiskey tried, Plague dumped the whole bag in the trash because he asked Whiskey if he'd washed his hands, and he hesitated.
Valek, though?
Yeah. He would totally touch the stash.
Surprisingly, Plague hasn't commented on it beyond staring for a solid minute at the coffee maker and then moving on to arrange ingredients for breakfast.
He's almost cute like this, all… domestic. His long dark hair is still wet, pulled back in a low tail at the nape of his neck, and he's wearing a black apron that matches his disposable mask. He cooks like he comes from a chef background and not medical-school-then-hockey.
We're having French toast with fresh berries and cut fruit this morning, and I'm fucking stoked.
After yesterday, I definitely need it. Even Wraith seems mildly interested in it.
With his chin resting on my shoulder, from this angle, I can see his eyes flicking to the stove once in a while through his half-lidded dark lashes.
"So," Whiskey announces from the counter, where he's perched on a stool with a coffee mug the size of a small bucket. He's shirtless again. I'm starting to think the only clothes he wears around the house are sweatpants and sometimes an open bathrobe. "On a scale of one to ten, how fucked are we?"
Nobody answers.
"Cool. Cool cool cool." He takes a long sip. "Eleven. Got it."
Thane sits across from Wraith and me, his phone facedown on the table.
He hasn't flipped it over once. He's already on his second mug of coffee, his hand squeezing it hard enough I'm surprised it doesn't explode, and his dark eyes have that thousand-yard stare of a man who's been awake since long before the rest of us and has already plotted how to respond to every possible disaster heading our way.
He looks like he aged five years overnight.
I nudge his forearm with my fingers. His eyes refocus, finding mine, and the tension in his jaw eases.
"You eat yet?" I ask him.
"Not hungry."
"Wasn't what I asked," I say, smiling.
The corner of his mouth twitches. "No."
"Then eat when Plague's done. Captain's orders." I point at him with my coffee mug.
He raises an eyebrow and takes a sip from his coffee. "You're not the captain."
"I outrank you. Omega privilege."
Thane snorts.
I'll take that as a win.
Plague slides a plate of French toast onto the table. It's golden brown, dusted with powdered sugar like the kind of thing you'd see on fucking Pinterest. A second plate follows, piled with buttery scrambled eggs and fruit. Then a third plate, which he sets beside Wraith without comment.
There's a glass dome over Wraith's.
So he can have it later, I guess.
Wraith eyes the plate, but he doesn't move, even though he must be fucking starving.
"Want to go upstairs?" I whisper to him.
He shakes his head and nuzzles into my neck.
I lean back against his strong chest, turning my head just enough to press my cheek against his bandaged jaw. He exhales a long, unsteady breath that I feel through my entire body.
Whiskey hops off his stool and drops into the chair next to Wraith with his food. Plague gave him enough to feed an army of alphas, and Whiskey inhales it like said army might actually come and try to take it from him.
"Hey. Wraith." Whiskey's voice is muffled by French toast. "You wanna hear something fucked up?"
No response.
"The fans are already making edits of Valek destroying Wade set to that Rasputin song. The ass-kicking and stomping matches the beat perfectly. So do the crunches."
Plague almost chokes from over by the stove and quickly composes himself so he doesn't laugh. He glances back at me over his shoulder with what I think might actually be sheepishness.
I grin at him, hoping he knows that means I'm not offended in the slightest.
From the far end of the table, Valek's mouth curves, but he doesn't look up from his phone.
"They're also calling Wraith…" Whiskey pauses, glancing at Wraith, then at me, clearly recalculating. "Actually, never mind."
"What are they calling him?" I ask, my hand finding Wraith's forearm beneath the table. His scarred skin is warm under my fingers.
"Uh." Whiskey chews his lip. "The Revenant."
Wraith snorts.
It's barely a sound, and definitely not a laugh. But his arms loosen a fraction and his head lifts slightly from my shoulder.
Plague brings his own plate to the table and sits on my other side. As he sets down his mug, my fingers brush his over the handle. The contact lasts half a second. His light eyes flick to mine, startled, before he pulls his hand back and picks up his fork like nothing happened.
I take a bite of French toast and have to bite back a moan. "Plague, this is fucking amazing."
"He learned from the best," Whiskey says simply.
"You did not teach me how to cook," Plague remarks, shooting him an annoyed look before turning back to me, inclining his head. "Thank you, but it's eggs and bread. Hardly complicated."
"It's perfect eggs and bread."
He doesn't respond, but the tips of his ears darken.
The kitchen settles into a form of normalcy.
We're way too banged up and shell-shocked for real normalcy, but it's close.
The familiar sounds of forks scraping plates, coffee pouring, Whiskey yammering with his mouth full while Plague sneaks extra food onto his plate. The solid warmth of Wraith at my back.
My eyes drift to the end of the table.
Valek's watching me.
Not in the way Wraith watches me, like he'll die if he looks away from me. Valek's attention is more peripheral, glances that last too long before his eyes return to his phone. The kind of look that says I'm not looking at you while his body is angled in my direction.
I watch him, too, waiting for him to look away.
Our eyes catch. He looks away first.
I pick up my coffee and try to focus on that instead of the fluttering of my heart.
One by one, the kitchen empties. Thane excuses himself to shower, squeezing my shoulder as he passes.
Plague clears the dishes except for Wraith's covered plate, the glass dome steamy with trapped heat.
Whiskey steals the leftovers before they can make it to the fridge and Plague chases him, bitching him out.
Valek stands, rinses his mug, and sets it upside-down on the rack on the counter. When he passes behind me on his way out, he doesn't say anything, but he's close enough I feel the displaced air against my arm.
Then he's gone, and it's just me and Wraith.
I shift in his lap, turning sideways so I can face him. His arms loosen enough to let me move, but don't release me. His blue eyes find mine, and gods, he looks so tired.
"Hey," I say softly. "Let me look at you."
He holds still with a reluctant rumble while I examine the bandages Plague applied last night.
The gauze is holding, though there's a spot near his jaw where dried blood has seeped through.
I peel the edge back to check the stitches beneath, pausing when he flinches before realizing it's just because he doesn't want me to see.
"These look good," I tell him, gently smoothing the tape back into place. "Plague did a great job."
Wraith watches me with those exhausted blue eyes.
"Are you okay?" I ask softly.
His hands rise slowly, like they weigh a thousand pounds each. Trying.
"I know."
I lean forward and press my lips to the jagged scar that cuts through his eyebrow. I hold the kiss for a long time. Long enough that his hands find my waist again and his forehead drops against mine when I pull back.
My vision blurs. I blink hard, refusing to cry, because if I start, I won't stop, and he needs me steady right now.
We just breathe together in our own little bubble, pretending the world outside the pack house doesn't exist.
Then Thane's phone vibrates on the table.
Not a single buzz, either. A whole bunch of them, rapid-fire.
I hear Thane's footsteps in the hallway—fast, still-damp-from-the-shower fast—and he appears in the kitchen doorway with a towel slung over his shoulders and his shaggy hair dripping onto the collar of a clean t-shirt.
He grabs the phone and groans, throwing his head back.
"What?" I ask.
"Management's sending PR to the house. Today. In an hour."
Oh, fuck.