But so is staying here.
At least with Wraith, I have a chance. A small one, maybe, but a chance nonetheless. He's had plenty of opportunities to show he's a typical alpha, and so far, he hasn't. Not even when I huddled against his body all night and then stood in front of him wearing nothing but a towel.
And I know it's not just that my omega brain is enjoying the warmth and scent of his sweatshirt a little too much as it hangs off me like a dress.
I can at least get my bearings at the pack house and regain some of my strength before figuring out my next move.
I've spent so long being afraid, so long running from alphas, that I don't know what to make of one who seems determined to help me.
Especially a feral alpha everyone else is clearly terrified of.
Then again, maybe that's a good thing.
Chapter
Fourteen
WHISKEY
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out, expecting some bullshit from Coach about practice schedules, but it's the pack group chat.
It’s a text from… Wraith?
I stare at the screen for a second, sure I'm reading it wrong. Wraith texting is rare enough. Wraith textingwordsis unheard of.
“What the fuck doeswinger in locker room needs doctormean?” I ask, flashing my phone at Plague.
He glances at the screen, frowning. “Guess it means we should go to the locker room.”
"This is fuckin'ridiculous," I mutter as we make our way through the arena corridors. "What's next? Zamboni races at midnight?"
Plague shoots me a sidelong glance, surgical mask firmly in place. "You would love Zamboni races."
"Damn right I would," I reply without missing a beat. "And I'd win. But that's beside the point."
The arena feels off today. Emptier. Like the ice is a little colder, the lights a little dimmer. Or maybe that's just my mood. Marine Corps instincts don't fade. They sharpen. And right now, every cell in my body is screaming that something isn't right.
Our footsteps echo through the hallway leading to the locker room. Plague walks with his usual precise steps, back straight, head held high like he's navigating a minefield of filth. Meanwhile, I'm fighting the urge to check corners and scan for threats.
"You think Wraith finally snapped and murdered our new teammate before he even suited up?" I ask, only half-joking.
"Don't be absurd," Plague responds, but there's no real bite to it. He's worried too. I can tell by the way his shoulders tense under that fancy coat of his.
We round the corner to find Thane pacing outside the locker room, phone in hand. His knuckles are red and swollen—like he's been punching walls again. Not a good sign.
"Any update?" I call out, forcing a lightness into my voice I don't feel.
Thane looks up, his face creased with tension. "Nothing beyond the text. There's no one in the locker room, and Wraith isn't answering follow-ups."
"Shocking," Plague says dryly.
"Thought we weren't meeting the new guy 'til later," I say, leaning against the wall and crossing my arms. "What the hell was he doing here already?"
Thane shrugs. "How the fuck should I know? Maybe he just wanted to get the lay of the place."
"And how'd that work out for him?" I chuckle, then immediately sober at Thane's glare. "Sorry, Cap. Bad timing."
A distant sound draws our attention—heavy footsteps approaching from the east corridor. We all turn to look, and holy fuck, I'm not prepared for what I see.
