Epilogue Valek #3
He watches her go, mystified.
I know that look, too. I had it once.
The mounted rubber fish on the wall behind him jerks.
It swings its head out from the wooden plaque and starts flapping violently, launching into a tinny dead-batteries sea shanty at full volume.
Wraith wheels with a savage snarl, hands snapping into claws. His blue eyes lock onto the motion-activated animatronic fish, flaring with aggressive terror, then bewilderment as Ivy pulls on his arm and tells him it's fine through her wheezing laughter.
I grin at him. "Put him back."
Wraith’s blazing eyes cut to me.
Then understanding hits and he shoves me hard enough that I stumble. Whiskey howls with laughter even though he has absolutely no idea what's so funny. He wasn't on the camping trip with us, where I discovered just how soft the supposedly terrifying feral alpha's heart is.
Wraith flips me off.
I give him a bow.
He turns toward the exit, takes two steps, then stops.
Before I can ask if something's wrong, he turns back and crosses the space between us.
His arms close around me without warning.
My arms stay suspended for a second, caught between instinct and surprise. Then I wrap them around his massive back, because I don't know what the fuck else to do about this.
He squeezes once.
Hard.
I choke.
When he releases me, he doesn’t look at me again. He grabs Ivy’s hand and heads for the door with his hood pulled forward, though it fails to conceal his reddened ears.
I watch him leave with our giggling mate.
I belong here.
The realization no longer terrifies me.
It only makes me look forward to getting home, taking a cat nap to regain my strength, and spending the entire weekend celebrating with our mate in the nest with every alpha willing and able to keep up.
Plague catches my sleeve when I make it outside after them, Whiskey's continued hysterical laughter bellowing out into the night.
“Val.”
I glance down at his hand. “Yes?”
“Come here for a minute.”
His tone pulls my attention away from the pack and our families gathering in the parking lot. I follow him around the back of the restaurant. The noise from the front fades, even Whiskey.
Plague stops beneath a security light.
I lean against the brick wall. “If you wanted another kiss, you could have asked in front of everyone. Your new mother already knows, brother.”
He gives me a flat look.
“Well,” he says, reaching inside his wool peacoat, “I wouldn’t complain, but that isn’t what I brought you back here for.”
He pulls out a manila envelope.
I stare at it, arching an eyebrow.
“An envelope?”
Plague sighs. “It’s important. I didn’t want it damaged.”
“Have you heard of phones?”
“Open it, Val.”
I take the envelope, sighing, and pop it open.
Several printed pages slide into my hand. Screenshots. Captions. Dates and usernames. Pictures pulled from a Russian social media site I haven’t used in years.
The first picture catches me by the throat.
A towering alpha stands inside a grungy underground fighting ring, one combat boot planted against a fallen opponent’s chest. Choppy white hair hangs to his shoulders, blood streaked across his muscled bare ribs and metal prosthetic arm.
An all-too-familiar military gas mask hides his face.
KNIGHT VS TYGRR
“Ilya is alive,” I hear myself saying.
“Yes. He's an active fighter.”
"How did you even remember the details?" I ask him. "I barely told you anything."
"You told me enough. I don't forget much."
I flip through the pages too quickly, then force myself to go back, to look at the picture of him, taller, stronger, even more heavily scarred than he was before.
The one along his ribs, the one Ivan gave him the day everything changed, is lit up by the flash as if it was meant for my eyes to confirm it's truly him.
I've imagined him dead more times than I've allowed myself to imagine him alive.
It was easier that way.
"What about Cosima?" I ask, almost regretting it as soon as the words leave my mouth. "His… well. She would be his mate now, I'm sure."
"I couldn't find anything," Plague admits.
He steps closer, his fingers settling on my hand. He's wearing his fucking leather gloves already. Of course he is.
“If you can forgive us for how poorly the trip to Canada went,” he says quietly, “maybe we could go on another trip one day.”
"Poorly?" I echo, my lips twisting. "Poorly is an understatement."
He clears his throat. "Yes. Well."
I lift my eyes to his, then beyond him.
Across the lot, Whiskey stands casually beside the brightly painted Cup van, pretending he isn’t looking for us.
Ivy has climbed onto Wraith’s back, yawning, nuzzling into his dark hair, which is not a good sign for my plans for the nest later.
Wraith is still stuck in a wave-off with my nephew, his other arm supporting Ivy.
And Thane is arguing with my father over how to exit the parking lot without ending up on the wrong highway.
It's a fight he'll lose, too. My father is a stubborn fuck.
"Perhaps," I murmur, distantly.
Right now, my family is waiting for us.
Both of them.