"Speak for yourself. I'm regular as fuck."
And they're off to the races again. I let their voices wash over me, a weird kind of white noise that's become oddly comforting. A few days ago, I would've been terrified to be out in publicwith two alphas. Now I'm sandwiched between them on a city sidewalk, and the only thing I'm worried about is whether they'll actually murder each other before we get back to the hotel.
Progress, I guess.
I still don't know what I'm going to do about these alphas being my scent matches. But when my phone buzzes in my pocket and my heart does that stupid fluttery thing again because I know it's Wraith, I do know one thing.
Whatever else happens with this pack, with these scent matches that feel too good to be true, I'm going back to him. He's become my anchor in ways I'm not ready to admit, even to myself.
But first, I need time to think. To figure out what I want without the influence of heat hormones or the overwhelming presence of alphas who smell like home.
Because that's the problem, isn't it? Theyallsmell like home. And the last time something felt like home, it turned into a prison.
I'm not ready to risk that again.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
But as I walk between Whiskey and Plague, listening to them argue like it's their love language, I let myself imagine—just for a moment—what it might be like if I could trust this.
If I could have this.
Chapter
Forty-Eight
THANE
Icatch Wraith's scent spiking with aggression before I even hit the bottom step leading to the pack house gym. The rhythmicthwack-thwack-thwackof fists against leather echoes through the concrete space like a war drum.
Wraith's demolishing the heavy bag.
And I meandemolishing.
The thing's swinging wildly on its chain, each impact from his massive fists threatening to tear it from the ceiling mount. He's wearing a white tank top that's absolutely drenched in sweat, clinging to his scarred torso like a second skin. Gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, and every muscle in his back and shoulders flexes with controlled power as he lands blow after devastating blow.
I lean against the doorframe for a minute, just watching. For a guy who's seven-foot-plus and built like a fucking mountain, Wraith moves with surprising grace. Each punch is perfectly placed—no wasted energy, no wild swings. Just pure, focused destruction.
The mask covering his lower face can't be comfortable to work out in. But he never takes it off. Not even around me.
"Gonna leave anything for the rest of us to hit?" I call out.
Wraith doesn't startle—he probably heard me coming down the stairs—but he stops mid-swing, letting the bag slow its violent pendulum swing. He turns to face me, chest heaving, his bright blue eyes the only readable part of his face.
Been here awhile,he signs with those massive hands.
"Yeah, I can see that." I step fully into the gym. "You trying to punch your way through to the other side of the building?"
He shrugs, turning his back to me to grab his water bottle from the bench. He tilts his head back, pulling his mask down just enough to take a long drink. I can't see his face from this angle—he's careful about that—but I catch the edge of scarring along his jaw before he quickly pulls the fabric back up and turns around.
I sigh. Nearly two decades we've been brothers, and he still won't let me see his face. Not deliberately, at any rate.
How's Ivy doing?I sign, just in case Valek's listening.
His eyes soften at her name, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.Misses me,he signs, gaze flicking to the floor like he doesn't fully believe that.
I bet she does,I sign back. I grab a pair of hand wraps from the rack, starting to wind them around my knuckles. "Speaking of missing people," I say out loud now that the subject's changed, "when you are going to Cedarbrook?"
