Ivy #2
The name is soft and gentle. Completely at odds with the appearance of the giant feral alpha whose scarred face is inches from mine.
But not the rest of him.
Not at odds at all.
"Misha," I say again, smiling, pulling him closer. "Can I call you that? When it's just us?"
He nods, pressing his face into my neck, and purrs.
The sound vibrates through my entire body. Deep, resonant, rattling my sternum and spreading warmth through my ribs. His arms tighten around me, pulling me flush against his chest, and his face stays buried in the curve of my throat where my pulse beats against his ruined mouth.
I wrap my arms around his neck and hold on.
When the purring finally gentles to a low, steady hum, I lift my head and rest my chin on his shoulder, staring at the loft around us. His heartbeat thuds slow and solid against mine.
My thoughts drift downstairs without permission. Whiskey, Plague, and Valek tangled together somewhere below us, all connected by this impossible thing none of us expected.
That's four of my alphas accounted for.
Which means Thane is alone.
"Hey," I say, tilting my head back to look up at Wraith. "Thane."
His eyes shift.
"He went to bed early," I continue. "He has another headache. He's down there by himself, isn't he? If Whiskey, Plague, and Valek are… um. Bonding."
He does that, Wraith signs. He's more introverted than me, sometimes.
"You're shy," I correct him lovingly. "I wouldn't say you're introverted."
He huffs and shrugs.
"Think he still has a headache?" I ask.
Headache or not, he signs, he would still want to be with you.
"That's sweet," I murmur.
Not because his words are romantic—they are, in their blunt Wraith way—but because of what they say about the two of them. Brothers who know each other down to the bone. Wraith doesn't have to guess. He knows.
Thane would want to be here.
Thane is probably lying in his room right now staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched, headache pounding, too stubborn to ask for company because he thinks his job is to hold everyone else up and never need holding himself.
"Then let's go get him," I say.
Wraith nods.
I climb out of his lap and he reaches for the scarf. I watch him loop it back around his neck and draw it up.
This time, he adjusts the fabric over his jaw, but he doesn't cinch it tight the way he always does with masks.
The fabric drapes loosely across his lower face, covering the worst of it, but there's space between the scarf and his skin this time. As he stretches, muscles flexing, and walks after me to the window, the scarf sags down.
Before he can fix it, I stretch up on my tiptoes to kiss the unbandaged side of his jaw, letting my lips linger against his sharp teeth.
He doesn't panic.
That's the first thing I notice. My lips press against the ridge of exposed teeth—hard and smooth and warm from his body heat—and he doesn't pull back. Doesn't jerk his head away or make that strangled sound in his throat that means don't look, don't touch, please gods don't see me.
He just… holds still.
His breathing catches once. A small hitch that's barely even there.
I hold the kiss for a second longer than I really need to.
His scarred hand rises slowly, like he's giving me time to step back and change my mind, even though I would never, ever change my mind about him.
His palm finds my cheek. His thumb follows the curve of my cheekbone, and as I sink back down to flat feet, his other hand comes up to mirror the first.
Both palms cradling my face.
For once, he isn't turning his away from mine, and my heart is slamming so hard I'm sure he can feel it where his fingers brush against my throat. Gods, I hope he knows it's because I love him and this is new, not because I'm nervous. I'm not nervous at all.
Just the good kind.
The fluttery-stomach-butterflies kind.
He tilts his head, watching me. And then he bends down—all seven-foot-three of him folding toward me like a tower bowing to the wind—and his face stops an inch from mine.
His eyes search mine one last time.
Can I?
He doesn't sign it. He doesn't need to. It's all there in the way his thumbs press gently against my cheekbones and his whole massive body is coiled tight with the effort of holding back.
"Yeah," I whisper.
The tip of his tongue slips out through his parted teeth and drags tentatively across my lower lip, testing. Learning how to do something he can't do the way other people can.
His tongue is warm and slightly rough, and impossibly gentle. The tip traces the bow of my upper lip. When he reaches the corner of my mouth, he pauses, and I feel the barest scrape of his teeth against my skin.
He pulls back immediately.
"No," I breathe, grabbing the front of his shirt. "Don't stop."
The blue in his eyes flares.
I stretch up again, rising onto my toes, and this time I close the distance. I press my mouth against his teeth and I kiss them.
He makes a soft sound. Almost a growl, a surprised one, and his hands tighten on my face as his tongue finds my mouth again.
Bolder this time. He licks across my lower lip and I part for him, his tongue sliding hesitantly against mine.
This time, when his teeth graze my lip again, he doesn't pull away.
He tilts his head. Tries a different angle. Tries another one. His nose bumps mine and he pauses, tilting his head again, and when his tongue drags slow and deep against mine, my knees actually buckle.
He catches me.
The sound he makes when I stumble—this rough, startled grunt against my mouth—is so worried and so fucking cute I fist his shirt harder and kiss him through it.
I feel the rumble building in his chest before I hear it. The purr kicks in low and deep and spreads through my whole body like standing too close to a bass speaker.
His teeth graze my bottom lip and he jerks back immediately, a panicked sound caught in his throat. I chase him, rising higher on my toes, pulling him down by his shirt until his mouth is on mine again.
He's more careful after that. Too careful. Holding himself so still I feel the effort of it vibrating in his tense arms. So I slow down, too. Match his pace. Let him feel that there's no rush and nowhere else I'd rather be.
He figures that out fast.
We stay like that, kissing in the amber glow of his loft, his tongue learning my mouth, mine learning his.
When we finally break apart, my lips are swollen and tingling and I'm pretty sure I've forgotten how to breathe.
His forehead drops against mine and his dark lashes flutter shut. His scarred thumb strokes my cheekbone, back and forth, like he's making sure I'm still here.
"Fuck, you're a good kisser, Misha," I whisper.
His chest shakes with a silent, bewildered laugh. He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes completely warm and summer-sky blue without any shadows in them at all. One hand stays on my head and the other comes up to sign again.
His palm faces me, thumb, index finger, and little finger extended. His middle and ring fingers stay curled against his palm. The fingerspelled signs for I, L, and Y, all combined into one sign.
I love you.
I caress his face with one hand and form the same sign with my other, pressing it against his, our palms and fingers meeting.
I love you, too.