Perhaps it wasn't just a dream at all.
Chapter
Eleven
IVY
Iwake up to my stomach trying to turn itself inside out.
The nausea hits me in waves, each one stronger than the last. I barely have time to grab the trash can beside the couch before I'm retching into it, my body wracked with violent shudders. Nothing much comes up—I haven't eaten enough for that—but the heaving doesn't stop.
When it finally subsides, I collapse back into my makeshift nest of blankets and Ghosts merch, trembling and covered in a fresh sheen of cold sweat. My head pounds with every heartbeat, and my throat burns worse than before.
I feel like I'm fuckingdying.
Strangely, I'm too exhausted to give a shit. At least if I die here, Wade definitely won't find me. I close my eyes, trying to will my body into some semblance of cooperation so I can at least get up the energy to drink something, when I hear it.
A low growl from the hallway.
My eyes snap open. I’m suddenly on high alert despite the fever making everything feel distant and hazy.
I know that sound. Heard it echoing in the tunnels just yesterday, coming from a masked alpha the size of a freaking polar bear.
Wraith.
A massive alpha hockey player who could snap me in half without breaking a sweat is standing outside my door in the middle of the night like some kind of guardian, afraid to knock because… why? Because he knows his presence would scare the shit out of me if I knew he'sright fucking there?
Strangely, I'mnotscared.
Or maybe I'm just so sick, I can't be.
My stomach lurches again and I barely get the trash can in position before I'm dry heaving, my body trying to expel something that isn't there. The sound is pathetic and desperate, echoing in the small space.
Another growl.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, trying to focus through the haze of fever and nausea. That growl sounded more distressed than the usual soft growls I've heard him make when he doesn't even seem to realize he's doing it. More like he's trying to ask if I'm okay, but he can't.
I slump back against the nest, pulling his blanket tighter around my shoulders. The scent of it—that wild, clean smell clinging to the thick fabric—is the only thing keeping me grounded right now. The only thing that doesn't make my stomach revolt.
Another wave of nausea hits and I lean over the trash can again, gagging on nothing. My whole body shakes with the effort, and before I know it, I'm on my side on the floor, the trash can and its contents spilled beside me. I hear myself make this awful, broken sound I don't even recognize as coming from me.
That does it.
The door rattles as Wraith tries the handle. Locked, obviously.
If I had the strength, I'd tell him to leave. But I can't get the words out between the shivering and the nausea and the overwhelming feeling that I'm about to die alone from dehydration in this abandoned VIP suite. Or exposure, because now I'm on the cold fucking floor.
Unless I find a way to open the door and let Wraith in, or tell him to bring a crowbar or something. Too bad I can't even lift my head.
"Help," I whisper pathetically.
Shit. There's no way he heard that. And I don't even know if he can hear anything. He's mute, so maybe?—
CRACK.
The door doesn't shatter so much as surrender. One moment it's locked, the next Wraith's massive shoulder has forced it open, the doorframe splintering under the pressure. He barely had to try.
I blink up blearily at Wraith, frozen in the doorway, silhouetted by the dim emergency lighting from the hallway. Even hunched slightly, trying to make himself smaller, he's enormous. His choppy dark hair falls across those striking blue eyes as he looksdown at me, and I can see the edge of his black gaiter where it covers most of his face.
