He just shrugs. I can tell he's already numbing out.
Room 63 is at the end of the hall, and Wraith's steps get slower with every door we pass. Room 57, 59, 61... By the time we hit 63, marked with a placard that readsClaire Marsh,he's completely frozen. Just standing there like someone hit pause on him mid-stride.
His breathing goes shallow that makes me think of when I used to hide in closets, trying not to make any sound at all. Like if he breathes too loud, something terrible will happen. The bouquet of flowers in his hand are trembling—actually trembling—and this is a man who takes hockey pucks to the face without flinching.
Fuck.
I want to tell him we should bail. That whoever's behind that door doesn't deserve to see him if it makes him look like he's about to face a firing squad. But I also know that look in his eyes. It's the same one I had every time I went back to people I loved, hoping maybe this time would be different.
Hope is such a bitch sometimes.
"We doing this?" I ask, keeping my voice soft.
He looks down at me and I can see him pulling himself together, piece by piece. Straightening his spine, squaring those massive shoulders. Putting on armor that's got nothing to do with hockey gear. Then he nods once, sharp and decisive, like he's psyching himself up to take a hit.
He raises his hand and taps his knuckles three times against the door.
"Come in!"
The voice from inside is bright, almost cheerful.
Wraith pushes the door open like it weighs a thousand pounds.
The woman in the chair is smaller than I imagined, drowning in a purple and pink striped sweater that's been washed so many times it's gone soft and shapeless. Her gray-brown hair is neatly braided. When she sees me, her whole face transforms with genuine warmth.
"Are you the new girl?" she asks.
But then her gaze slides to Wraith, and I watch that warmth die like someone snuffed out a candle. She shrinks back into her chair, fingers going white where they grip the armrests.
"Oh. It'syou."
The venom in those two words makes my hands clench into fists.This is your son, I want to scream. Your son who drove hours to see you, who brings you flowers, who pays for this nice facility so you're comfortable while you crush his spirit over and over again.
Sure, she isn't exactly culpable anymore, but I've never had trouble reading between the lines. When Thane told me what hecould about Wraith's past, I put two and two together just fine. The shit she's put Wraith through goes way, way back.
But Wraith just moves to the dresser, setting down the vase with movements so careful they might as well be choreographed. He's trying not to exist too loudly in this space. Trying not to be too real, too present, too much of anything that might set her off.
"What beautiful flowers!" I inject as much warmth into my voice as I can manage, settling into the visitor's chair like I belong here. "I'm Ivy. It's so nice to meet you, Mrs. Marsh."
"Marsh?" Confusion flickers across her face. "No, dear, it's Winter. Claire Winter. Though I was born ClaireKohlerbefore I married Grant."
She uses her first husband's name. Not her second's. My mind files that away—she's erased Wraith's stepfather from her history.
That's... interesting. And telling.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Winter. I love your sweater. Purple really suits you.”
"Thank you. My son gave it to me when he was just a boy." She sighs wistfully. "He always knew my favorite colors."
Behind her, Wraith arranges the roses with the kind of focused intensity that tells me this is how he copes. Something to do with his hands while his mother talks about him like he's not even there. Like he's not even alive.
"He looked just like his father," Claire continues, lost in her memories. "Grant died when our boy was so young. Overseas. IED." She pronounces each letter carefully. "But our son grew up to look exactly like him. Sometimes I'd look at him and forget..."
"He must have been handsome," I manage. "Your husband."
Wraith glances at me over his shoulder, brow furrowed in apparent confusion that I'm implyinghe'shandsome, as if he finds that completely insane. He is, though. He's a beautiful alpha regardless of what's beneath the mask.
The laugh that bubbles out of her catches me off guard—so genuine and warm that for a moment I can see who she must have been before tragedy broke her mind.
