"He's our teammate now," Plague reminds him.
"Doesn't mean I have to like him."
My phone buzzes with a text. It's from Wraith. He's been texting every hour, usually just a simple question mark, making sure I'm okay. It's sweet and slightly overwhelming and makes my chest do this weird fluttery thing.
IVY
Still at breakfast. Your packmates are ridiculous.
WRAITH
normal then
I laugh, showing the message to Whiskey and Plague.
"He's not wrong," Whiskey admits.
"Speak for yourself," Plague says. "I'm perfectly reasonable."
"You're smiling at your phone like a lovesick teenager," Whiskey observes as I text Wraith back.
"Shut up," I grumble.
But there's some truth to that. It may not be love, but it is something I haven't felt in a long time. The strange tugging in my chest of hope. Of hoping there's a chance that maybe, despite everything, things could work out. That I could have this. Them. A scent-matched pack.
Yep. Being stuck in the tunnels for so longdefinitelyfried my brain cells. My inner omega is already trying to warm up to these alphas while simultaneously kind of wanting to bite them every time they get too close.
Whiskey suddenly clears his throat, shifting awkwardly in his seat. "Hey, uh... Ivy? Can I ask you something?"
The change in his tone—from playful to uncertain—immediately puts me on alert. "What?"
"It's about Wraith." He exchanges a quick glance with Plague, and something cold slides down my spine. "Do you... I mean, has he told you about his... issues?"
My shoulders tense immediately. "Issues? What kind of issues?"
"Not like that," Plague says quickly, shooting Whiskey a warning look. "We're not trying to interfere. We just want to make sure you know what you're getting into."
"I know he can't speak," I say, my voice coming out sharper than intended. "And I know he's scarred. Is that what you mean by 'issues'?"
Whiskey winces, running a hand through his hair. "It's just... he's really, uh... intense looking."
The defensive anger that surges through me is immediate and hot. "Are you seriously sitting here telling me I should care about how he looks? You think I'm shallow?"
"No!" Whiskey's eyes go wide, hands up in surrender. "That's not what I meant at all." He rakes a hand through his hair, mussing it. "Shit, I'm fucking this up."
"What Whiskey is trying and failing to say," Plague interjects, his voice careful and measured, "is that Wraith has been hurt before. Badly. By people's reactions to his appearance. We just want to make sure that won't happen with you."
The anger drains out of me as quickly as it came, replaced by something softer. They're not warning me away from Wraith, they're protecting him.
"I don't care what he looks like," I say quietly but firmly. "I care that he brought me supplies when I was sick. That he protected me. That he holds me like I'm something precious instead of something to possess. His scars don't matter to me."
Whiskey's expression softens, but there's still uncertainty there. "It's just... he's a little more than scarred, you know?"
Plague's elbow connects with Whiskey's lower ribs hard enough to make him grunt. "That's not our story to tell," Plague says sharply.
"I know," Whiskey wheezes, rubbing his side. "I'm just?—"
"You're just being a dumbass," Plague cuts him off. Then he turns to me, his pale eyes serious. "We're not trying to scare you away from him. The opposite, actually. Wraith deserves someone who sees him for who he is, not what he looks like."
