I can still feel the ghost of his touch, the careful way his hand covered my scarred shoulder, easing the pain there without asking questions, without demanding explanations. The gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, his woodsy scent enveloping me like a shield against the world.
I've never slept so deeply, so peacefully, as I did in his arms last night. That hasn't changed now that I've glimpsed part of the scars he’s hiding beneath the mask.
Nothinghas changed.
I sent him for food partly because I really am starving—my stomach cramps painfully at the thought of pho, rich broth and noodles and herbs—but mostly because he needed distance. A mission. Something to do other than spiral into self-loathing over something that wasn't his fault in what should be his sanctuary.
I still can't believe I asked forpho, of all things. As if I'm on a casual date and not hiding from the world in an alpha hockey player's pack house loft while I recover from a suppression shot that nearly knocked me out.
Like we're just two perfectly normal people deciding what to have for dinner.
But that's what makes it so precious, isn't it? This moment of normalcy. Of being treated like a person with desires and preferences rather than a problem to be solved or a possession to be claimed.
Could Wraith really be my scent match?
The question I've been avoiding bubbles back to the surface of my mind, impossible to ignore any longer. I certainly enjoy his scent, but for omegas, scent matches are a whisper. For alphas, scent matches are a roar. An instant, ancient recognition that overwhelms all rational thought.
I’ve never heard of an alpha having a scent match and not shouting it from the rooftops. And Wraith has never mentioned it. Never even hinted at it.
But I don't think he would tell me.
If that glimpse of his face is any indication of the full extent of his injuries, I can understand why he acts like I’m insane for wanting to be near him. I fucking hate it, but I understand. Why he might hide the truth of a scent match.
But he's wrong.
Catastrophicallywrong.
I wrap my arms around myself, thinking. The brutal reaction my body had to the shot means I can't take the second dose. Not without risking an even worse reaction that might actually land me in a hospital, exactly where I can't afford to be.
Which means I'm going to have to go into heat.
Could I ask Wraith to help me through it?
The thought sends a hot flush through my body that has nothing to do with my messed up hormones.
It wouldn’t have tomeananything. It could just be two people handling a physical need. No strings attached.
Except that would be a lie.
And if I'm right—if we are matches—I need to make it clear that I want him because of who he is, not just because my heat is approaching or because some biological imperative is pushing us together. That the match only confirms what I already feel, what I've felt since he held me through that first night.
Another thought occurs to me. One I hadn't considered before.
If Wraith is my scent match, what about the other alphas in the pack house?
I know almost nothing about alpha dynamics, but I know the core members of the Ghosts—Wraith, Thane, Whiskey, and Plague—are more than just teammates. They're a bonded pack. And if an omega matches with one pack member, she matches with them all.
Are Thane, Plague, and Whiskey my matches too? Would I feel the same pull toward them that I feel toward Wraith? The same inexplicable trust, the same sense of rightness? Are they bonded on a chemical level that would extend to me?
I haven't even met them. They might be typical alphas. Might not be safe and kind and good like Wraith.
My burner phone feels heavy in my hand as I grab it from my bag. The battery is low, but it should last long enough. I plug it into the wall outlet to charge and hesitate for just a moment, thumb hovering over the screen, before pulling up a browser and running a search on the Ghosts.
Thane first.
The search results load instantly. Photos, articles, stats. Thane's face fills my screen. Intense dark eyes beneath shaggy dark hair that nearly brushes his broad shoulders, tanned skin, a face that looks carved from granite. Team captain and starting goalie. Son of the NHL Commissioner.
I scroll down, skimming his career highlights. A headline catches my eye.Belmont Brothers: NHL's Toughest Family Dynamic.
