His concerned eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, like he's smiling beneath the mask.
The heating pad helps, but I'm still shivering. My teeth won't stop chattering no matter how many blankets I pile on. Wraith notices—of course he does—and makes a questioning sound, pointing at himself and then at me.
It takes my fever-addled brain a moment to understand what he's offering.
Body heat.
He's offering to share body heat.
I nod before I talk myself out of it.
Wraith's eyes widen slightly, like he didn't expect me to agree. He moves slowly, carefully settling onto the couch with one of his legs over the side and his foot on the floor. He's positioned himself as physically off the couch as possible. He pats his chest twice, an invitation.
I hesitate for just a moment before dragging myself over to him. It takes more effort than it should—my limbs feel like they weigh a thousand pounds—but I manage to curl up against his side, my head resting on his broad chest.
He's so…warm.
The heat radiating from him seeps into my chilled body, and I can't help the small sound of relief that escapes me. I burrow closer, seeking more of that warmth, and feel his arm come around me. Carefully. Hesitantly. Like he's not sure if he's allowed to touch me.
"S'okay," I mumble against his chest. "You can... it's fine."
His arm settles more firmly around me, his huge hand spread across my back. Not restraining, just... holding me. The other hand comes up to gently adjust the blankets around me, making sure I'm covered.
I can hear his heartbeat beneath my ear. Strong and steady, yet slightly fast, as ifhe'safraid ofme.His chest rises and falls with each breath, and I find myself matching my breathing to his without meaning to.
He doesn't seem to mind that I'm sweaty and gross and probably smell like a trash fire. He just holds me, sharing his warmth, his hand gently caressing my back in soothing circles through the blanket. And I'm too exhausted to keep up the walls my fever has thoroughly burned through.
"Why are you being so nice to me?" I whisper against his chest.
He makes a soft rumbling sound. Not quite a growl, more like a purr. His hand on my back pauses for a moment before resuming those gentle circles.
I wait for an answer I know won't come in words. Instead, he carefully reaches up and tucks a strand of hair that's escaped my cap behind my ear. The gesture is so tender, so careful.
Then my stomach lurches again and I groan, pressing my face against his chest. He immediately shifts, moving his hand to rub my shoulder.
"Gonna be sick again," I warn him.
He doesn't move away. Instead, he reaches out to grab the trash can and lifts it up to me, holding it there. Then he goes back to gently rubbing the back of my neck with his other hand, the motion somehow helping to settle my roiling stomach.
I don't end up puking, thank the gods. But the nausea lingers, waves of it cresting and falling. Through it all, Wraith just holds me until I settle back against him and close my eyes. This time, both his arms come around me.
It's fucking weird that I feel comfortable curled up against a seven-foot-plus-tall feral alpha who's known as the scariest player in the NHL. An alpha who could crush my skull like a pumpkin without even trying. But my give-a-shit meter is broken right now, and honestly? It's nice to have someone give a damn whether I live or die.
Been a while since I had that.
At some point, I must doze off because when I wake up, I'm drenched in sweat and vaguely aware my fever has broken. I'm still curled against Wraith's chest, his arm still around me, the blanket still tucked carefully around me.
The first thing I notice is that I'm not dead.
Actually, I feel… sort of okay?
I blink slowly, trying to orient myself. The familiar darkness of my nest surrounds me, broken only by the soft glow of mysecurity monitors. I have no idea what time it is. That's one of the downsides of living in the bowels of a hockey arena.
Could be noon, could be midnight.
Time has become a fluid concept down here.
Wraith is still awake. I can tell by the way his breathing changes when he realizes I'm stirring. But he doesn't move, doesn't try to extract himself from our tangle of limbs.
