The girl blushes, her fellow omegas giggle, and just like that, I'm in performance mode. The big, friendly "himbo" they expect, whatever the fuck a himbo is. All I know is I keep seeing that word in the fan chats, and it seems to be a good thing.
I throw my arm around Plague's shoulders, feeling him tense under my touch, and drag him into the frame as the girls take turns getting selfies with us.
"We just got pictures with Wraith too!" one of them squeals, showing us her phone. "Can you believe it?"
I nearly choke. "Wraith?OurWraith?"
"Yeah! At the clinic on Fifth Street."
Plague and I exchange a look. Wraith never goes out in public during the day. Ever. At least not outside of whatever "errands" he runs when he goes out of town for a couple of days and comes back in a shittier mood than usual. Even then, that's rare.
"The omega clinic?" I repeat, trying to keep my tone casual. "When was this?"
"Like the other day," the girl says, scrolling through her photos to show us the photos she and her friends took of our feral power forward. Yep. That's him alright. "He didn't say anything, obviously, but he let us take pictures!"
"Is it true what they're saying about Valek? Your new winger?" another one asks, eyes wide. "That Wraith put him in the hospital?"
Great. News travels fast.
"Nah. Team's just fine," I say with a wink, keeping my tone light. "We're one big happy pack."
They pepper us with more questions. About Thane, about the upcoming season, about whether or not I'm really single. I handle each one with practiced ease, making jokes, flexing a bicep when asked, letting them hang off it like spider monkeys.
All while my mind is elsewhere, racing through what the hell Wraith was doing at an omega clinic in broad daylight.
Finally, Plague clears his throat. "We need to go," he says, voice clipped.
The girls look disappointed but don't argue with the ice king. One last round of photos, a few more autographs, and we're on our way again, their excited chatter fading behind us.
"The omega clinic," I mutter once we're out of earshot. "Shit. That cinches it, huh?"
Plague gives me a sidelong glance. "It would appear so."
"Gotta say, I didn't expect Wraith to be the first one to bring an omega home," I say with a stiff laugh, raking a hand backwards through my hair. It's the only explanation that makes any sense. There's nothing else that's coming to mind for why he'd be there.
"And why not?" Plague asks pointedly, his voice dripping with judgment.
"I'm not insulting him," I say quickly. "Just stating facts. The guy acts like he's allergic to omegas. Or like his face is radioactive or something. Like if an omega sees him without his mask on, they'll spontaneously combust."
"It is surprising they saw him in the middle of the day," Plague admits. "Perhaps he was there for medication. Heat suppressants, if she's approaching a cycle."
"The omega weknowhe's hiding," I correct him.
The omega with wild honeysuckle scent who calls to me, tugging the cords in my chest like fingers plucking harp strings.
"You handled those fans well," Plague says, changing the subject quickly enough it startles me. "You're surprisingly good at that."
"At what? Being charming? Some of us have social skills, pretty boy."
"At pretending everything's normal when it isn't."
Something in his tone makes me glance over. For once, he doesn't look irritated or superior. He looks almost impressed, even with the mask on. The unexpected half-compliment throws me off.
We walk the rest of the way in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. By the time we reach the pack house, my skin feels too tight, like I'm about to burst out of it. Or tear it off, werewolf style.
I pull my key fob from my pocket, but Plague beats me to the door, his fingerprint already registered on the scanner. The door clicks open, and we step into the pack house.
The place is dead quiet. No sign of Thane, who must still be dealing with the fallout at the arena. No sign of Wraith, either, though that's nothing new.
