Wraith signs something to us, then gestures back toward the door with his thumb. Thane nods. "He's going to grab some stuff from downstairs. More pillows and blankets," Thane translates. "For your nest."
My heart does that stupid fluttery thing again. Even here, stressed about seeing family and dealing with whatever medical shit he has to handle, Wraith's thinking about my comfort.
"You don't have to—" I start, but he's already out the door.
Thane flops onto the non-nested bed, looking more relaxed than I've seen him since this whole mess started. "He's nervous," he says, staring at the ceiling. "Always is before seeing her."
"His mom?"
"Yeah. She's... it's complicated." He turns his head to look at me. "She doesn't really remember who he is. Most of the time she thinks… well, she thinks her son—Wraith—died, and Wraith is a…" He pauses, choosing his next words carefully, and looks at the floor.
"What?" I ask warily, feeling sick to my stomach.
"A demon."
The weight of that statement settles in my chest like lead. No wonder Wraith wants to go alone.
"Fuck," I murmur.
"Yeah."
We sit in silence until Wraith returns, arms full of freshly laundered blankets and pillows. He dumps them on my bed, and I immediately start incorporating them into my nest, the familiar activity soothing my frayed nerves.
Thane goes out to get the pizza when it arrives so nobody knocks on our door. Pepperoni and sausage for Thane and me, plain cheese for Wraith, which is kind of surprising considering he’s an alpha, and all the alphas I’ve ever known are basically carnivorous. Thane and I eat straight from the box while Wraith disappears into the bathroom to eat his in private. I wish he wouldn't, but I don't push it.
"Can we watch a movie?" I ask, eyeing the ancient box TV. "Something mindless and stupid?"
"I'll see what channels we get," Thane says, fumbling with the remote. After some percussive maintenance—hitting it against his palm—the TV flickers to life.
The options are limited. Three fuzzy local channels, what appears to be a 24-hour weather station based on the shapes I can see through the fuzz, and somehow, inexplicably, a channel playing a marathon of cheesy '80s action movies that never made it to the big screen.
"Perfect," I declare, settling into my nest.
Thane joins me, carefully maintaining distance until I roll my eyes and pat the space next to me. "I don't bite," I say. "Unless you're into that."
Plague certainly was, but I don't blow his cover.
Thane barks out a surprised laugh. "Noted." Then a sharp hiss of breath escapes through his teeth. His hand flies to his jaw and he winces, pressing his fingers against the yellowed bruise. He freezes, waiting for the pain to pass, eyes squeezed shut.
"Thane," I say softly.
"I'm fine," he grunts, dropping his hand. "Just stiff."
"You're not fine. You're hurting." I don't give him room to argue. I slide off the bed and head to the mini-fridge where we stashed the drinks. I grab a cold can of soda and wrap it in one of the thin motel washcloths.
When I come back, he’s watching me with wary dark eyes. "Ivy, you don't need to?—"
"Sit still," I order, climbing onto the bed beside him.
He opens his mouth to protest—probably some captainly nonsense about how he can handle it—but I press the makeshift ice pack gently against his bruised jaw. He flinches at the cold, then lets out a long, ragged exhale as the relief hits him.
"You hold everyone up, Thane," I whisper, my other hand coming up to steady the pack, my fingers brushing against his rough stubble. "You hold Wraith up. You hold the team up. You hold the coaches off. You can put it down for a second."
He stares at me, his dark eyes searching mine, raw and exhausted. "I can't," he murmurs, the vibration of his voice humming against my fingertips. "If I let go, it all falls apart."
"I've got you," I say firmly, moving my thumb to stroke the tense muscle of his neck. "Just for a minute. Let me have you."
Something in his gaze fractures. The stoic, unshakeable leader cracks, revealing the starving man underneath. He leans into my touch, his eyes fluttering shut, his heavy head dropping to rest more fully against my hand. It’s a surrender. An admission of weakness he would never show the others.
