Ivy
Inearly dislocate my fucking shoulder zipping up the back of my dress.
Worth it.
It's a gorgeous deep green dress with thin straps, soft enough to move when I do without any seams driving me crazy when I bend down. I ordered it online and sent Whiskey and Plague off to pick it up for me while I got ready for my date with Thane.
They came back with the dress and a bucket of chicken wings, and there was sauce in Plague's hair, and he was pissed.
But the dress didn't get sauced, and that's the important part.
Sorry, Plague.
I internally apologize for using the kitchen scissors to get the tags off, too. They're going back in the drawer before he notices.
The only problem with the dress is my scar. It's right there, shiny and pearlescent on my bare shoulder.
I reach automatically for the shawl I set aside on the bathroom counter. Then I catch myself doing it and feel like shit.
I've kissed Wraith's scars. I've told him he's beautiful and meant it down to my bones. And here I am about to hide mine because some asshole at a restaurant might stare.
The shawl stays on the counter. Every person in this country with an internet connection has read about the flat iron anyway.
If anyone so much as glances twice at my scar, they can shove breadsticks up their ass.
Out in the living room, the pack is in its usual evening formation.
Whiskey has two-thirds of the couch and a bag of chips on his bare stomach, scrolling his phone.
Plague has squeezed into the remaining third with a book.
Valek's sprawled in the armchair, eyes closed.
Napping, probably, but I see his eye crack open a sliver and find me.
And Wraith has somehow shadowed me from the bathroom to the living room, glued to my back, so warm I can feel him there. I reach up automatically and he leans down to meet me halfway, affectionately nuzzling my hair as I stroke the side of his bandaged jaw.
He doesn’t flinch away this time.
The happy butterflies get started in my chest.
Thane left over an hour ago. Errands, he said, in the strangled voice of the worst liar alive. Our reservation is at seven. If Captain Punctuality is late to his own date, it will actually kill him, and I've been stressing on his behalf ever since.
"Lookin' good, wildcat." Whiskey points a chip at me. "Like, stupid good. Thane's gonna walk into a wall."
Wraith rumbles in agreement into my hair.
Someone knocks on the front door.
Three polite knocks.
The entire room loses its godsdamned mind.
"DOOR!" Whiskey bellows, in case any of us missed it, and rolls off the couch like we're taking mortar fire.
Chips everywhere, crunched into the carpet.
Plague cries out in horror, either at the door or the chips.
"Who the fuck knocks? Plague, who the fuck knocks? I'm not even wearin’ fuckin’ pants!
" He gestures frantically to his boxers.
"Stop shouting and put your fucking pants on, then!" Plague snarls.
Wraith's already between me and the door, all seven feet of him, dead silent, hands loose at his sides in that way that means they're about to not be.
Because nobody knocks on this door.
Not even deliveries, which text first. If someone belongs here, they just come in. The last people to show up unexpected were fans.
Which is the only excuse I have for what I do next, and what I do next is bolt for the coat closet.
At the same time as Whiskey.
His massive frame drives me into the winter coats and squashes me against the wall.
The air leaves my lungs in one undignified wheeze.
Here's the thing about being crushed in a coat closet by the alpha version of a bull.
There's a survivable version and a fatal version, and the only difference is the padding.
Whiskey's midsection saves my life. All the extra fluff I love snuggling with insulating the solid wall of muscle absorbs me instead of turning my ribs into powder.
"Whiskey," I croak, my voice squeezed thin between him and the wall. Thane's leather coat sleeve is draped over my face. At least it smells good. Something hard and pointy—a sword hilt? why do we keep a fucking sword in here?—digs into my hip.
"Shh." Whiskey doesn't move. "I'm protecting you."
"You're crushing me."
He twists, peering down over his own shoulder, and his honey-brown eyes go wide in the light coming through the slats when he finds me wedged behind him with the umbrellas and the fucking sword. "Oh, shit, wildcat! Sorry!"
He shifts maybe two inches, which makes no difference.
I nip instinctively at him.
"Fuck!" he yelps, crushing me more, somehow.
Before I can get another mouthful of him, he repositions, planting one massive arm across the doorframe and angling his body so I'm tucked completely into the shadow of him, coats curtaining us both.
His cinnamon-y scent wraps around me, and despite everything my pulse comes down a notch. "Why do you bite so much?"
"Feral, remember?" I ask dryly, grinning up at him in the dark.
"Right," he says with a nervous chuckle, scooting further out of bite range.
Through the gap in the closet door, I get a sliver of the living room. Wraith has planted himself directly in front of us, blocking the sight line from the entryway. Guarding the closet. Guarding me. His back fills my entire view.
Almost my entire view.
Because past his elbow…
"Whiskey." I grab his forearm. "Why does Plague have a fucking knife?"
Because Plague, who irons his pajamas, is padding to the front door barefoot with a butcher knife from the kitchen held flat against the back of his thigh. He’s creeping toward the door like this isn’t the first time he’s resorted to lethal measures. Not by a long shot.
"Huh." Whiskey squints through the gap. "That's new."
"Considering you've known each other in every way imaginable, Plague acting like he’s straight out of a spy movie being new to you isn't exactly comforting."
"Not in every way," he protests. "It ain't like I let him shove his cock up my—"
Plague whirls around and holds a finger to his lips, eyes blazing with panic.
Valek peels off the armchair without a sound and drifts to the hinge side of the door, silver eyes flat, positioned where the door will hide him when it opens.
Three polite knocks, and my entire pack reorganized itself into a kill box.
Wow. I really have found my people. These alphas really fucking hate unexpected guests.
Same, boys.
Plague checks the peephole. His shoulders drop with a whoosh of an exhale and he rolls his eyes, opening the door.
From this angle, I can't see anything except the back of Plague's dark hair and a wash of porch light. He stares. Valek leans, looks, and stares too.
Nobody says a word.
Plague closes the door and turns around. "Ivy," he says carefully, clearing his throat. "You need to get the door."
"Me?" I shove a parka off my face and push the closet door open just enough to talk through the crack. "Why me? Who is it?"
Plague doesn't answer. He crosses to the kitchen, slides the knife into the block between the bread knife and the empty slot where the kitchen scissors were, stares at the space for a second with his eyes narrowed fiercely, and mutters something about fucking Whiskey under his breath before stomping off.
"It wasn't me this time," Whiskey protests, squeezing behind me so I can get out of the closet.
I untangle myself from the coats and cross to the front door, smoothing my dress down. Wraith shifts aside just enough to let me pass, hovering.
I take a deep breath and open it.
It's…
Thane?
The towering alpha is in a charcoal suit, holding a gigantic bouquet of red roses.
He's freshly shaved, but his glorious hair is fortunately untouched, styled neater than it usually is and partially swept back from his forehead, the strands brushing his broad shoulders.
His dark eyes go a little glassy when he takes in the dress.
"You knocked," I say dryly. "At your own house. You traumatized the pack."
"I saw the knife," he admits. "But it's a date. You're supposed to pick the lady up at the door."
His ears look slightly pink.
Oh, this man.
I grab his lapel and pull him down into a kiss. He makes a soft, surprised sound against my mouth and his free hand finds my waist.
"You errand-ed a whole suit," I murmur against his lips.
"The roses were the errand. I already had the suit," he admits with a low chuckle.
I kiss him again because the first one wasn't enough, rising on my toes while he bends to meet me. The roses crinkle in their paper between us as his hand tightens where it rests on my waist.
Whiskey wolf-whistles from somewhere behind me. "Okay," he announces, clapping his hands together once. "This is real cute, but some of us got crushed in a closet for this."
I break away from Thane's mouth and turn around. "You crushed yourself in that closet," I point out. "And me, by the way."
"I saved you! I used my body like a human meat shield, bro-ette."
Thane's eyebrows climb. "Why were you guys in the closet?"
"You knocked," Plague says flatly. "And we're all fucking insane, apparently."
I snort and start making my rounds. Whiskey first, because he's already making grabby hands. He hauls me into a hug that lifts me clean off the floor, and I kiss his stubbled cheek.
"Have fun, wildcat. If the restaurant sucks, text me, I'll order you a pizza to the table."
I grin. "That's not how restaurants work."
"Not with that attitude."
Plague is next, the reserved alpha's lips lingering on mine for longer than necessary. His hand comes up and rests warm on my back.
"The scissors," he murmurs against my hair, "go back in the block before Whiskey gets 'confused' again."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I say innocently.
"Mm." He kisses me again.
Valek doesn't get up, but he’s looking at me like it’s killing him not to, so I lean over the armchair and kiss the scar on his head, the one I gave him. His eyes track me the whole way, silver and unblinking.
"You look like a forest fire," he says.
"Is that good?"
"It's catastrophic," he says quietly. "Enjoy your dinner."
Wraith is last, and he's already signing where he waits by the door. Beautiful. Be safe. Text me.
"I think I'll be just fine. But I will." I cup the unbandaged side of his scarred jaw this time, and he bends so I can press a kiss to the bandaged part. His chest rumbles, low and warm.
Then his gaze cuts to Thane over my head, narrows, and his hands move again, more emphatically and direct this time.
Thane snorts. "I'm not going to lose her."
You lost your keys twice this week, Wraith signs pointedly.
"Keys aren't my mate."
The happy butterflies in my stomach get started all over again.
Thane offers me his arm and I loop mine through it, cradling the roses against my chest with my free hand. They smell incredible, dense and sweet, two dozen at least in the deepest red I've ever seen.
"Did you buy out the whole shop?" I ask him, sniffing them as he leads me out into the cool evening air.
"There was a moment of panic at the counter," he admits. "The florist asked how many. I didn't have a number prepared."
"So you said all of them."
"Maybe." His ears go pink again.
When we reach the car in the parking garage, he steps ahead, opens the passenger door, and holds it with one hand braced on the frame.
"My lady," he says with a bow.
He is such a cornball.
I love it.
I duck under his arm and slide into the seat, roses in my lap, grinning up at him like an idiot.
I can't wait to see what he's planned.