Ivy
The hour passes in five minutes.
Okay, not really. But it feels like five minutes, because the moment Thane says "PR," the pack house transforms from post-apocalyptic nest camp into a frantic scramble that would be hilarious if I wasn't so fucking terrified.
Whiskey yanks on a shirt, backward. Plague sweeps through the living room, dismantling our nest, folding blankets and stacking pillows. Thane paces the kitchen with his phone pressed to his ear, fighting to negotiate more time and getting absolutely nowhere.
Valek hasn't reappeared, and Wraith hasn't moved from beneath me.
"Hey," I say softly, cupping his bandaged jaw. "We need to get you cleaned up."
His huge shoulders lift and then sink with a heavy sigh, but he nods.
I follow him to the bathroom and sit on the counter on my phone while he showers because I don't want him to be alone.
The water runs forever.
I just sit there doomscrolling, my back against the wall. At some point I realize I've been staring at the same post for four minutes without reading a single word.
When he gets out and towels off, careful not to get his dripping hair on his bandages, I glance up and have to bite back a holy shit at the glistening muscles of his back flexing with the movements, the water droplets tracking down between his massive shoulder blades.
My mate is fucking glorious, even as tired as he is.
He catches me staring and stares back warily at me over his shoulder.
"You look good," I say mildly.
His eyes go flat with a look that clearly communicates doubt, but he doesn't argue with me this time. He pulls new clothes on and offers his hand to help me down from the counter. I stretch up first to kiss the tip of his nose, flinging my arms around his neck.
The worry in his eyes softens.
The living room is unrecognizable by the time we get downstairs.
Plague performed a minor miracle. The blankets are gone, the pillows are gone, the three giant IKEA sharks are shoved behind the couch where I can still see one sad fin poking out. The coffee table is back in position. The cushions are fluffed. There's even a candle burning on the coffee table.
That's… probably over the top, but okay.
Plague stands by the bookshelf, adjusting volumes so their spines align perfectly. He's changed into a charcoal turtleneck and dark slacks. His hair is pulled back in a low ponytail and his black surgical mask is firmly in place.
He looks like he's about to attend a gallery opening, not a PR ambush.
"You cleaned," I say.
"Someone had to." His pale eyes flick to me for a second, then he swallows like he likes what he sees even though I'm just in a t-shirt.
"I helped," Whiskey protests.
Plague turns briskly to Whiskey, who is now wearing an actual dress shirt that clings to his solid frame, his muscles bulging the sleeves. It doesn't go with his pants. Although pants is a stretch for red flannels.
"You moved one pillow. Then you ate the rest of the French toast."
Thane appears from the hallway, freshly shaved, jaw set. His dark eyes sweep the room. He spots Wraith hovering behind me in the doorway and gives him a subtle nod.
You good?
Wraith shrugs.
"Where's Valek?" Thane asks.
"Present."
Valek materializes from the stairwell like he was waiting for his name to be spoken aloud. He's in a dark henley with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and my eyes catch briefly on the scars on his forearms.
He smiles at me.
It's actually not the usual vaguely menacing grin. This one's kind of stiff and awkward, curving up a little too much on one side, and he lets out a hoarse chuckle that he turns into clearing his throat and straightening his back.
I look down and realize it's because my white t-shirt is soaking wet from when I hugged Wraith, fresh out of the shower.
OH.
The doorbell rings.
I grab the closest thing, which is Whiskey's flannel, draped over the back of a kitchen chair, and yank it on over my wet shirt. It hangs off me like a tent, still warm.
Whiskey stares. "Hey, I need that so I match—"
"Mine now. Omega rules."
Thane squares his shoulders, drags a hand through his damp hair, and goes to answer it.
Three people step inside. Two women and a man, all in business casual, all carrying tablets and expressions that say we've been briefed and we are NOT fucking happy about it. The woman in front, a beta in her mid-forties with a gray bob, extends a hand to Thane.
"Eliza Roach, Head of Public Relations. This is Ray and Daphne."
She doesn't wait for him to introduce himself. She knows who he is. Her eyes have already landed on Wraith.
To her credit, Eliza doesn't act weird with him. Her gaze holds steady on the bandages covering his lower face, the visible edge of the scar bisecting his eyebrow, the sheer size of the feral alpha looming in the doorway behind me.
Her eyes move to me next, and she nods slightly, like she recognized me right away and now she's sure. Then to Valek, where they linger longer than on anyone else.
"Shall we sit?" she asks.
The pack arranges itself around the living room with the instinctive formation of animals circling a threat.
Thane takes the armchair across from Eliza, who claims the center of the couch.
Ray and Daphne flank her with their tablets.
Plague leans against the bookshelf with his arms crossed.
Whiskey drops into a chair and manages to look casual even though he almost falls out of it and his knee is bouncing fast enough to register on the Richter scale.
Valek takes the wall near the door.
And Wraith sits beside me on the loveseat, close enough that our thighs touch. I pull his arm into my lap and wrap my hands around his, leaning on his shoulder.
Daphne, who has been eyeing us like she doubts we're actually together, scribbles something down on her tablet.
"Let me be direct," Eliza begins, crossing her legs and balancing her tablet on one knee.
"Last night was a category five public relations event.
We have three separate situations that need to be addressed.
Wraith's unmasking. The attack on Wade Kelly.
And the revelation that Ivy Byrne—Wade Kelly's missing fiancée—is the Ghosts' scent-matched omega. "
She ticks each item off on her fingers like she's reading a grocery list.
Thane speaks up first. "Wraith acted in—"
"Self-defense. Yes. The league has reviewed the footage and agrees.
" Eliza's tone is clipped but not unkind.
"Wade struck Wraith in the face with his stick.
On camera. That's clear-cut. The mauling, however…
" She pauses, choosing her words. "The mauling is more complicated, from an optics standpoint. "
Wraith's hand tightens around mine.
"The footage shows a feral alpha savaging another player's neck and shoulder severely enough to require emergency medical intervention," Eliza continues. "While the league has ruled it as a proportional response to an active attack, the public perception is... divided."
"Divided how?" Plague asks from the bookshelf.
Daphne taps her tablet and reads without looking up. "Thirty-eight percent of surveyed fans support Wraith's actions as self-defense. Thirty-three percent believe he should be permanently suspended. The remaining are… well." She hesitates. "Making memes."
"The memes are fire," Whiskey offers helpfully.
Thane shoots him a paint-stripping look.
"The bigger issue," Eliza presses on, pointedly ignoring Whiskey with the tired sigh of a woman who's entirely used to him, "is Wraith's feral classification.
The league has tolerated his status because his on-ice behavior, while aggressive, has remained within acceptable parameters.
And it matters that the fans do enjoy it.
Last night pushed well beyond those parameters.
There are board members calling for a formal review of his eligibility. "
My stomach drops.
Wraith looks dissociated again, his eyes flat and dark. I press my knee harder against his.
"What does a formal review look like?" Thane asks, his voice carefully controlled.
"Psychiatric and medical evaluation. Possibly a probationary period with restricted play. A muzzle, perhaps, and a guarantee he won't unmask himself on the ice again." Eliza meets his eyes. "Or permanent suspension, depending on the findings."
A fucking muzzle?
"He was attacked," I say immediately. Every head in the room turns to me.
"Wade hit him in the face with a stick. Wraith's mask was already soaked with blood and he couldn't breathe.
He removed it because he was suffocating, not because he wanted to scare anyone.
And Wade provoked the physical altercation by making verbal threats. "
Eliza's eyes study me. "What kind of verbal threats?"
I feel Wraith go rigid beside me.
"Wade recognized my scent on Wraith. I know Wade. I was with him for over a year. I know exactly what he would have done and said if he smelled his escaped omega on another alpha. And we could all see he was yelling at Wraith on the ice before the… stuff… hit the fan."
Don't get profane, Ivy, I tell myself. Because I want to drop words like shit and fuck and fucking fuck FUCKING FUCK so badly it hurts.
Eliza's sharp eyes study me. "What do you think happened?"
"He would have taunted him. Made comments about…" My throat tightens. I force through it. "About what he did to me. During our relationship. He would want to hurt Wraith as much as possible."
Beside me, Wraith rumbles with a soft growl.
Which tells me everything I need to know about whether I'm right.
"Is that something you'd be willing to state on the record?" Eliza asks carefully. "The nature of your relationship with Wade?"
My scarred shoulder throbs. The phantom pain I've learned to live with, flaring up yet again at the worst possible moments.
Wraith's thumb strokes across my knuckles. A tiny movement. Don't. You don't have to do this.
"If it protects Wraith," I say, "then yes."
The words come out steady. The decision was already made before she finished asking.