His biggest rivals' arena.
I'm here.
I'm safe.
He hasn't found me yet.
Unlike in my recurring nightmares, I actually escaped. I can still taste the copper tang of blood in my mouth from where I bit through his finger when he grabbed my hair to wrench me away from the door.
He tells everyone it was a dog attack. A dogmauling,to be specific. Can't have the media knowing his omega fought back. But I have the satisfaction of knowing I took a piece of him with me when I ran.
Letting out a shaky breath, I sit up, raking my hands through my hair. Why is it soaked? Why am I so cold? It only takes a moment before I realize the simple act of sitting up has left me winded and shivering.
I'm not just quaking from the nightmare. Whatever was making me feel like shit last night has come back with a vengeance.
Groaning, I slump back into my nest of scraps, trying to burrow deeper into the darkness. It doesn't help. My throat feels like I've swallowed broken glass, each attempt to swallow sending shards of pain radiating through my neck. My body aches, muscles protesting even the slightest movement. And despite the chill of the abandoned VIP suite I call home, I'm drenched in sweat.
Yep. I'm sick.
Very,verysick.
For a moment, I let myself indulge in self-pity. I imagine what it would be like to be curled up in a real bed right now instead of on a couch in the bowels of a hockey arena, with soft pillows and warm blankets instead of a nest of clothes and towels. To have someone bring me soup and tea, to stroke my hair and tell me everything will be okay.
But no one's coming to take care of me.
No one even knows I'm in here.
And that's exactly how it needs to stay.
Groaning, I push myself into a sitting position, wincing as the movement sends a fresh wave of pain through my skull. But as shitty as I feel, I need to get some supplies. Water, at the very least, and hopefully some of those delicious blue electrolyte drinks from the vending machine that usually stocks things like that.
My exhausted body protests as I pull on the baggy maintenance uniform that's become my second skin. I tuck my hair under a cap, wincing as even that light pressure on my scalp aggravates my needling headache.
The cold air hits me like a slap to the face as soon as I slip out into the hall and I shiver despite the fever I can feel burning through me. Or maybe because of it. The arena is always cold—it has to be, it’s a freaking hockey arena—but today, it feels particularly biting. I pull my jacket tighter around me, wishing I had thought to grab an extra layer.
The first vending machine I come to is a bust. Water, soda, more demon-themed hyper-caffeinated drinks than anyone could everpossibly need. But no sports drinks. Nothing with electrolytes. I move on to the next one, trying to ignore the way the flickering fluorescent lights make my head throb even more.
No luck there either.
Or at the next one.
Or the one after that.
By the time I've checked half a dozen machines throughout the tunnels and back rooms, I'm starting to feel desperate and panicked. All I've managed to find is a mostly empty first aid kit with an expired aspirin packet that’s better than nothing, but not by much.
The defeated journey back to my room feels ten times longer than the trip out. Every step is an effort of will, my vision blurring at the edges as I force myself to keep moving.
It’s insanely unfair that this fever is fucking me over so hard. I could apparently power through burning off my mark with a flat iron in the bathroom of a bus station so Wade couldn’t track me as easily, but this stupid fever has knocked me flat on my ass.
When I round the corner, I stop dead in my tracks.
There, on a small utility table beside the maintenance door that leads to my sanctuary, sits a bag. A plain black duffel bag that absolutely, positively wasnotthere when I left.
For a long moment, I just stand there, staring at it like it might sprout legs and skitter away. Or maybe explode. Neither would surprise me at this point.
The bag is positioned deliberately. Not randomly dropped or forgotten, but placed exactly where I'd see it. The zipper ispartially open as if to deliberately reveal the electric blue of several sports drinks identical to the ones I've been searching for all morning.
And next to the bag sits a steaming cup of what appears to be microwaveable chicken noodle soup, the steam curling up in lazy wisps.
