I pull her closer in answer, cradling her against my chest.
She fits so perfectly.
Soon, Whiskey and Plague will return with the supplies.
Her heat will intensify.
Decisions will need to be made.
But for now, she's nestled against me in a nest built from my shirts and blankets, a soft purr building in her chest as I stroke her hair, her arm, her back.
Wish we could stay like this forever.
Chapter
Thirty-Seven
THANE
Isink into what's left of our couch, wincing as my ribs protest. Everything hurts. My jaw throbs where Wraith landed that first blow in the parking garage. The headache I thought had receded is back, pulsing behind my eyes in rhythm with my heartbeat.
And now Valek is here. In our house. Prowling around like he owns the place.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
At least the group chat seems to be working. Keeping Ivy updated without having to go up to the loft is probably for the best. The less movement in and out of there, the better. I still don't entirely trust the seal Plague and I put on the trapdoor. If Valek is even half as perceptive as he seems, he'll notice any irregularities.
Speaking of irregularities, the new couch still reeks of factory chemicals. No matter how much we sprayed, there's no mistaking it for a piece of furniture that's been lived on.Everything in this room screams "hastily assembled cover-up." I just hope Valek doesn't look too closely.
"You dress like an assassin with a LinkedIn profile," Whiskey's voice carries from the kitchen, drawing my attention.
"And you dress like you fell through the roof of a Tractor Supply and retained whatever stuck to you," Plague replies, his tone glacial. "Your fashion advice means less than nothing to me."
"Hey. They have some quality shit."
Great. They're at it again. I can practically feel my blood pressure rising as Whiskey and Plague emerge from the kitchen, continuing whatever argument they've started now. Whiskey's pulling his leather jacket on, keys jingling in his hand. Plague is adjusting the cuffs of his black turtleneck—yes, a fucking turtleneck sweater on a warm day—with stiff movements that somehow manage to convey his annoyance.
"All I'm saying is maybe loosen up a little," Whiskey continues. "Especially now that we've got a you-know-what in the house. You're wound so tight I'm surprised you don't squeak when you walk."
I rub my temples, willing my migraine to subside. "Can you two shut the hell up for five min?—"
"A what in the house?"
All three of us snap to attention as Valek appears in the doorway, his silver eyes glinting with interest. He leans casually with his shoulder against the frame, arms folded across his chest, and one leg crossed over the other like he's been there the entire fucking time. But there's nothing casual about the way he's studying us.
Shit. What has he heard? I thought he was in his damn room. For such a tall alpha, he moves like a ghost. My pulse quickens, and I resist the urge to touch my ribs where they're still aching from my fight with Wraith. This is exactly what we've been trying to avoid. Valek overhearing anything about Ivy.
Plague goes perfectly still and Whiskey's mouth clamps shut so fast I swear I hear his teeth click together.
"Nothing," I say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. "Just team stuff."
Valek's thin smile tells me he doesn't believe me for a second. "Ah. 'Team stuff.'" He steps into the room. "You know, in my experience, when conversations halt the moment a foreigner enters the room, it's rarely... how do you Americans put it? Good news."
Wait... does he think we were saying something abouthim? I open my mouth to reply, but Whiskey beats me to it.
"Whoa, dude." Whiskey holds up his hands, eyes wide. "Nobody here has a problem with foreigners. I have no issue with Canadians whatsoever. And Plague's from the Ottoman Empire."
“The Ottoman Empire doesn't exist anymore,” Plague says incredulously.
