"Could you get me a heat suppressant shot?" I ask finally. "From a clinic, I mean. You're an alpha, and a professional athlete. They'd give it to you, no questions asked. Just tell them it's for… your girlfriend, or something."
His eyes widen slightly above his mask in obvious surprise. But he nods.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
He hesitates, then signs something I’m pretty sure is a question about if I’m okay staying here alone.
“I’ll be fine,” I assure him, even as another chill races through me. "I just need to take it easy. The suppressant will help with the rest."
He doesn't look convinced. He takes out his phone, points to it, then to me, and shrugs with his palms up, questioning.
“Do I have a phone?” I translate. He nods. “Yeah, I do. It's in my backpack on the couch.” I manage a dry laugh. “It’s just not good enough to use for much, so I don’t really bother.”
He lifts my backpack off the seat and sets it on the bed next to me. I fish the burner phone out as Wraith scribbles something on a piece of paper. When he hands it to me, it takes me a moment to figure out what it even says. It's numbers, I think, but his handwriting is so bad, it feels like deciphering a puzzle.
Now I see why he doesn't just write things down.
"Is this your number?" I ask.
He nods.
I put his number in my contacts under "Wraith." For a moment, I wonder what his real name is, but it's not like I've given him mine. That feels… strangely intimate. Which is funny, considering we’ve cuddled and slept together in the same bed.
"Is this right?" I ask him, holding up the phone for him to see. Even that feels exhausting.
He checks, then nods. He points to his mouth through his mask and shakes his head, then points to ear and nods. Then he makes a texting motion with his thumbs and nods again.
"You can't speak, but you can hear me if I call, and you can text back," I translate.
Another nod.
"I promise I'll call if I need anything," I say, trying to sound stronger than I feel. "The fever's breaking, I think. I'll just rest until you get back."
He studies me for another long moment, like he's memorizing my face. Then he rises to his feet in one fluid motion and moves to a chest of drawers near the window. As if it weighs as much as an empty cardboard box, he lifts it and carries it over to what looks like a trapdoor in the floor. An entrance I hadn't even noticed before. He sets the chest down, checking beneath it and making a final adjustment to make sure it covers the hatch.
The message is clear.
No one's getting in while he's gone.
He returns to the side of the bed and places a glass of water, some salted crackers, another sports drink, a cup of applesauce, a cup of ice chips, and more fever reducers within my reach. Everything I could possibly need while he's gone.
Our eyes meet, and something passes between us. A strange understanding that makes my chest hum. Then he turns and pulls the window open. He glances back to me once, as if he wants to say something else, but doesn't. He disappears into the late afternoon light and shuts the window behind him.
The quiet that follows his departure feels strangely hollow.
I lay motionless for several minutes, listening to the sounds of the pack house settling around me. It's empty, at least.
With effort, I push myself to a sitting position. The room spins briefly, but the nausea from earlier seems to have subsided. Itake the pills Wraith left, washing them down with cool water and ice chips that soothe my raw throat.
Now that I'm alone, the reality of my situation crashes over me like a wave.
I'm going into heat.
In a pack house full of alphas.
With an abusive ex who would tear apart cities to find me.
And my only ally is a feral, seven-foot-tall, mask-wearing, mute hockey player named Wraith who is notorious for violence on the ice and communicates through growls and basic sign language.
