He blinks, suddenly coming back to himself, then takes a step back, raking a hand through his messy brown hair. "Fuck."
It takes me a moment to remember to breathe. When I do, I straighten my coat and step sideways, putting more space between us. My legs feel like they’ve gone to jelly.
“We need to go,” I say hoarsely, hoping for once he fucking listens. “We’ll find her. I promise you that. Butnotby acting like feral alphas. We give him three days to tell us on his own, and if he doesn’t, we confront him together.”
He nods, the tension gradually easing from his shoulders. "Yeah. You're right."
"I usually am."
That earns me a ghost of his usual smile. "Fuck you, pretty boy."
Chapter
Eighteen
IVY
The past couple of days have blurred together in a strange, quiet haziness that feels less like hiding and more like healing.
We fall into a routine that should feel claustrophobic in such a small space, but with Wraith, it just feels… right. He holds me every night, barely sleeping, as if he was put on this earth to watch over me like my own personal giant guardian angel. He sits beside me while I eat overcooked microwaved meals and we watch movies with the volume low. He patiently teaches me more signs, and while he isn’t particularly communicative, he’s excellent company.
But as one fever fades, a different kind of heat begins to simmer under my skin. At first, I ignore the restlessness, the way my skin feels too tight and my senses seem dialed up to eleven. I blame it on the recovery, on the stress of being in the pack house.
The third night—at least, I think it’s the third night—I wake up from a fitful sleep to a gentle pressure on my shoulder.
Wraith.
My eyes flutter open to find him crouched beside the bed, blue eyes intense with concern. He immediately pulls his hand back when he sees I'm awake, giving me space. The lamp beside the bed highlights the scar that cuts through his right eye, turning it silver.
"What's wrong?" I mumble, trying to push myself up. My body feels heavy, limbs still weighted with sleep and lingering illness. "Did something happen?"
His hands move in those now-familiar gestures, signing something I don't fully catch. When he sees my confusion, he slows down and spells it out with his fingers.
H-E-A-T.
It takes my foggy brain a moment to process what he's saying.
Oh.
He knows.
My hand flies to the back of my neck where I'd placed my scent-blocking patches. They're still there, but when I press against one, it feels loose, barely adhering to my sweat-dampened skin. Between the fever and the shower, they've probably become completely ineffective.
Wraith's massive shoulders are tense as he points to me, then to the window we came in from, making a motion like walking. Then his hands spell outH-O-S-P-I-T-A-L.
The word sends a jolt of pure terror through me. I shake my head violently, pushing myself back against the wall.
“No. No hospital.” The words come out sharper than I intend them to. “They'll ask for ID. Insurance. They'll put me in the system. I can’t take that kind of risk.”
I can see the conflict in Wraith's eyes. He wants to help, but he doesn't know how. His hands hover in the air between us, uncertain, but I can at least tell he isn’t going to force me to go.
"I can't," I say, softer now. "Please. No hospital."
He sighs, nods, points to himself, and signsO-K… U-N-D-E-R-S-T-A-N-D.There's a weariness in his eyes that makes me wonder if he hates hospitals as much as I do. The scars certainly hint at medical trauma of his own.
I let out a shaky breath, trying to think through my options. Going to a hospital is out of the question. Staying here, in a pack house full of alphas—and in one's room, to make matters worse—while my heat approaches is equally risky. I need suppressants. The strong kind for emergencies, not the pills I’ve been relying on. Pills I could just… throw up again.
Wraith tilts his head, waiting patiently.
