I stare in silence at her, and she shifts, suddenly aware she's said something wrong. Must see the irritation in what little of my face she can see now, even though I'm managing to keep the growl quiet. The feral instincts still lingering want to escalate into a full-blown snarl.
"I just mean... medically speaking..."
I ignore her, typing on my phone again.
Nausea medication too.
She blinks, thrown by the abrupt change. "Oh. Sure."
The rest of the transaction passes in tense silence. She hands over another box with pills, explains the dosage without making eye contact.
I leave the moment I can, heading back toward the pack house. Toward the only person other than Thane who has seen my scars and hasn't reacted with visible shock and horror.
Not yet, anyway.
Chapter
Twenty-One
WHISKEY
Two days of radio silence from Wraith, and I'm about ready to crawl out of my own skin.
Practice was a shitshow. Coach spent the whole time screaming about "team cohesion" while our feral power forward was conspicuously absent. Again. Thane covered for him—something about Wraith needing space after the Valek incident—but even Captain Loyalty is starting to look strained.
Plague and I already agreed we're done waiting. Tomorrow, we're confronting Wraith whether he likes it or not. The shared dreams, the tunnel evidence, the way he's been avoiding us like we've got the plague—no pun intended—it all adds up to something big. Something he's hiding.
Something omega-shaped.
"You're walking unnecessarily fast," Plague says, his voice muffled by the surgical mask.
I hadn't realized I was practically speed-walking. "Sorry," I mutter, slowing my pace half a step. "Just want to get back."
"To do what, exactly? Storm the castle? Kick down Wraith's door? Challenge him to a pistol duel at dawn?"
"Don't be an asshole."
"One of us has to be practical."
I shoot him a sideways glance. The man looks like a fucking GQ model even fresh off the ice, not a hair out of place. Perfect jawline, perfect everything.
It's irritating as hell.
"I'm being practical," I argue. "We agreed—tomorrow. That's practical. That's a plan."
"A plan you're going to ruin by being impatient."
I snort. "I've been patient for two fucking days. That's a personal record."
We turn onto the main street leading to our neighborhood, and instantly the air changes. A group of young women across the street spots us, their expressions lighting up. One points, another fumbles for her phone, and then they're crossing toward us, excited whispers carrying on the breeze.
Fuck.Not now.
"Whiskey! Plague! Oh my god!" The leader of the group, a blonde omega, practically bounces as she approaches. "Can we get a picture? Please?"
Plague stiffens beside me. I know he hates this shit—the attention, the photos, the strangers invading his space. But these are fans, and without fans, we don't have jobs. So I plaster on my best "happy to meet you" grin and slip into autopilot.
"Sure thing, darlin'," I drawl, laying the Texas accent on thick. "Always got time for the best fans in the league."
