Thane
My parents' house never changes.
The same family photos march up the staircase wall in the same brass frames. The same lemon oil scent clinging to the bannister. All the furniture is exactly where it was the last time I left, because they never change shit around in here.
I take a second to look at the pictures anyway.
Me at eight with a goalie mask bigger than my torso, me and Wraith as teenagers in the backyard rink photo that thousands of strangers are currently dissecting online, my parents on their anniversary cruise looking sunburned and happy and normal.
Normal.
That's me.
Fucking thanks, Valek.
But I don't have time to think about that right now. Over the past few days, I've defended my pack and my brother to the league, to PR, to a room full of journalists with recorders shoved at my face.
Somehow, the talk with my parents is the one I've been dreading most.
"Sit down, Thane," my father says from his armchair. I can tell from his tone I'm not going to have to fill him in on anything. And why would I? It's plastered all over every tabloid and news outlet for the whole world to see.
I sit on the couch, which is the only part of the room that's changed at all recently, but only because it's been reupholstered twice.
My mother sets a cup of coffee in front of me that I didn't ask for and absolutely need, then perches on the arm of Dad's chair instead of sitting anywhere comfortable. That's what she does when she's nervous and wants to be able to physically intervene between us if necessary.
She's had practice.
"So," Dad says.
"Hmm?"
"Ivy Byrne."
"Yeah."
He laces his fingers together over his stomach. He's gotten grayer this year. The job does that. "You want to tell me why I found out my son's pack claimed an omega from a press conference? On television? With the rest of the continent?"
"Because the alternative was telling you while she was still hiding, and putting you in a position where you'd have to choose between your job and my pack." I hold his eyes. "I wasn't going to do that to you."
The lines around his mouth tighten. He wants to argue, and I can see he already has the rebuttal loaded. Then he exhales through his nose and some of the Commissioner drains out of his posture.
"That's…" He scratches his jaw. "Annoyingly considerate."
"I learned from the best."
"Don't butter me up, I'm furious with you."
"You're not furious with me."
"I'm a little furious with you." He picks up his own coffee and doesn't drink it.
"The league office has been a war zone for four days, Thane.
I've recused myself from everything touching your team, which means I get to sit in the hallway while people who hate me decide whether my sons keep their careers, all with no context. "
"I know."
"Wade Kelly's family has lawyers like other families have houseplants."
"I know that, too."
"And your brother bit through a man's shoulder on national television."
"He was defending—"
"I watched the press conference." His voice cuts clean through mine, and then gets quieter. "I watched all of it. I heard the statement you read."
My mother's hand finds Dad's shoulder. Her eyes are shiny, and she's not bothering to hide it, because that's never been her way. She's known Wraith since he was a hollow-eyed kid who flinched at every sudden movement. She knew pieces of his story.
We all knew pieces.
Nobody had ever heard him lay all the pieces out in a row before.
"Mikhail," Dad says quietly. "He never told us his name. All these years. We knew as his foster parents, but he never told anyone."
"He gave it away at that podium because the alternative was reporters digging it up and selling it." I rub my hand down my face. "Guess he figured it was better to hand them the knife than wait for them to stab him with it."
Mom makes a small sound and presses her knuckles to her mouth.
"He's okay," I tell her, both because she needs to hear it and because it's true. "Actually, he's better than I've ever seen him."
"Because of the girl," Dad says.
"Because of Ivy."
He studies me. It's his deposition stare, the one that's broken stronger men than me from across negotiating tables. I've been immune to it since I was sixteen so he's mostly doing it out of habit at this point.
"Tell me about her."
So I do. I tell him about the tunnels. The two months of her living on vending machine food in his league's own arena, and he winces at that.
The forced mark she burned off her own shoulder with a flat iron.
The fire extinguisher to Valek's head, which makes Mom giggle.
Wraith finding her, hiding her, protecting her.
The scent match.
All of us.
"Including Wraith," Dad replies.
"Including Wraith," I confirm.
His eyebrow's all the way up. "You're certain?"
And there it is.
He doesn't say it outright because he's not cruel. My father has never once been cruel about Wraith, and has thrown his entire career in front of people who were, but I know what he's not saying.
Are you sure someone could actually…?
"Dad." My voice comes out flat. "Stop."
"I'm asking a reasonable question."
"You're asking if a woman could genuinely want my brother, and I need you to hear how that sounds before you finish asking it."
He doesn't reply.
Mom's hand tightens on his shoulder.
To his credit, he doesn't get defensive. Probably because Mom is squeezing the living shit out of him and the nails are gonna be next if he starts up again.
Dad looks down at his coffee for a long moment. When he looks back up, the Commissioner is gone, and it's just my father, older than I keep remembering he is.
"I'd like to meet her," he says finally. "When things calm down. Dinner. Here."
"You'll behave?"
"He'll behave," Mom says, in the voice that ends discussions, wiping her eyes. I didn't realize she was crying. She catches my hand as I stand. "Thane. The girl… Ivy. She's good for your brother. But is she good for you?"
I blink in surprise.
And I think about how her hands felt on my head last night, and how tonight, I'm taking her out on a date. Just the two of us. And it's the most excited for something I've been in years. Even more than the biggest games.
I nod, my throat feeling tight. "Yeah. She's good."
I don't tell her the part about how I'm going to have fucking nightmares for the rest of my life about Ivy grinning and perched at the foot of my bed like a vengeful spirit.
It's part of her charm.
My mother pulls me down and kisses my cheek and tells me I look tired before sending me off with a Tupperware of leftover pot roast I didn't ask for.
It's for both Wraith and me. She still doesn't understand Wraith won't eat meat, and she especially doesn't understand it's because he's the gentlest of us all beneath the… well.
The everything.
It's only in the car, halfway home, that the nerves hit.
I reserved a spot at a nice restaurant for tonight. The owner owes my father a favor, so we're guaranteed privacy, no cameras, good food.
Classically romantic.
And… yep. Normal.
Fuck, I hope I'm not boring.
Concern about that is why I still haven't cut my hair, which has gotten long enough to hang a little past my shoulders now.
If I cut it and style it again instead of letting it grow out, I'm going to be even more fucking normal, and Ivy doesn't seem to like normal, considering… the rest of the Ghosts.
I hope it's at least a good thing that I'm constant and stable, which is a fucking joke considering I put my fists through walls on special occasions. But I'm nothing like the other four alphas in our psycho pack.
It's a good restaurant. She'll love it.
Hopefully.
She'd probably also love whatever unholy mayhem the other alphas would conjure up, is the thing. Because apparently I pack-bonded with a collection of fucking cryptids and I'm the only one who plans dates like a human being.
Earlier today, after breakfast, I overheard the others coming up with their own ideas. Whiskey's idea of a date is a rage room with fireworks after. And it sounded like the fireworks part of the date involved being the ones to light the fuses.
Illegally.
Redneck shit, he'd said. She'll fuckin' LOVE redneck shit. She knocked out Valek with a fire extinguisher, bro! She's got the spirit already.
I pull into the parking garage, kill the engine, and sit there for a few minutes, scrubbing a hand down my face in crisis about whether I need to do some other shit tonight to spice things up for our feral omega.
Maybe a movie after.
Maybe even a horror movie.
… FUUUUCK.