"All the more reason for us to help! We're a pack, for fuck's sake."
"And maybe that's exactly why Wraith hasn't told us," Plague says, his expression softening slightly. "Think about it. If she's running from someone, which is the only fucking reason an omega would hide like this, why would she trust a pack of strange alphas? Do you realize what kind of position she must be in if she allowed an alpha as intense as Wraith to bring her to his loft after what can't have been more than a few days?"
That stops me. I hadn't considered it from that angle.
"Besides," Plague continues, "if there is an omega up there, imagine how she'd feel if you came bursting through the ceiling like the Kool-Aid man. How would that earn you any favor with her?"
The mental image almost makes me smirk, despite everything. Almost.
"So we just, what? Stand around with our thumbs up our asses while Wraith does his lone wolf routine again? What happened to confronting him tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," Plague says firmly. "When we can have a conversation like adults instead of you ambushing a potentially traumatized omega while she's in the shower."
Fuck. He has a point.
"Fine," I concede finally. "But I'm talking to him. As soon as he shows his face, or his eyes, or whatever, we're having a conversation."
"Talking is acceptable. Breaking and entering is not."
I roll my eyes. "Yes,sir. Whatever you say,sir."
Plague regards me coolly. "Your military sarcasm doesn't work on me."
"Nothing works on you," I grumble. "You're like a fucking robot."
"And you're a bull in a china shop." He turns away, heading back toward his room. "Tomorrow. We wait until tomorrow."
I take a deep breath in and let it out slow. “Tomorrow. But that's it. After that, all bets are off.”
"Agreed." He pauses at his door, looking back at me with an expression I can't read at all. As fucking usual. "And try not to do anything impulsive before then."
"Me? Impulsive? Never."
The corner of his mouth quirks up in what might be the ghost of a smile. "For once in your life, Whiskey, justtry."
Chapter
Twenty-Two
IVY
The water has cooled around me, no longer the soothing warmth that eased my aching muscles. I must have dozed off for a bit, my fever-addled brain finally finding some peace in the quiet bathroom. For how long, I'm not sure. Long enough that my fingertips have wrinkled like prunes.
Wraith will probably be back soon. The thought makes my stomach flutter in a way that has nothing to do with my illness.
I pull the drain plug and stand up, water cascading down my body as I reach for a towel. The bathroom is modestly stocked, like everything else in this sparse loft. Just the essentials. One oversized black towel hangs on the rack. I dry myself off with it and stare at my pile of clothes on the floor. They're still damp from sweat, and the thought of pulling them back on now that I'm finally thoroughly clean makes me cringe.
That's when I notice the black bathrobe hanging on the back of the door. It's massive—clearly Wraith's—and looks absurdly clean and soft.
He did give me his sweatshirt earlier. This is probably fine too.
The terrycloth fabric feels heavenly against my still-sensitive skin as I wrap it around me. It's comically large, the sleeves hanging well past my fingertips. I have to roll them up several times just to free my hands. The bottom hem pools around my feet, and I gather it up to avoid tripping as I pad back into the main room like a terrycloth queen.
The loft is quiet, still empty.
No sign of Wraith's return yet.
I shuffle back to the bed, practically swimming in fabric, and sink into the mattress with a grateful sigh. The nest of blankets Wraith built for me earlier is still there, and I burrow into it, wrapping myself in layers of his scent.
