"She's in heat," Thane adds, his voice dropping to a rasp. "Or close to it."
I close my eyes, letting the omega's full scent wash over me. It clicks something into place deep inside my chest. A puzzle piece I didn't know was missing until now.
"Definitely our fucking scent match," I say, opening my eyes to look at my packmates.
None of us move. None of us need to confirm what we all know with absolute certainty. The honeysuckle scent filtering down through that air duct connects to something in each of us. That ancient instinct that recognizes her asours, ingrained in the very first alpha to fight his way out of the primordial fucking soup.
And I'm supposed to just sit around and wait patiently like a good little soldier?
Fuck that.
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
IVY
I've been channel surfing for the past hour, trying to find something—anything—to distract myself while waiting for Wraith to return with our food. Some reality show about an alphahole with a pack of twelve omegas plays on the screen, but I'm barely paying attention.
It feels like a cold war, and I’m the nuclear secret.
I shift on the couch, pulling Wraith’s blanket tighter around my shoulders. The first suppressant shot is still working, but that telltale uncomfortable warmth is still building under my skin.
A soft thump from somewhere below the loft catches my attention. I mute the TV, straining to hear. For a moment, there's nothing but silence, and I wonder if I imagined it.
Then another sound.
This one more distinct.
A metallic scraping, like someone is picking at the floor from the other side.
My heart rate kicks up a notch. I slide off the couch, padding silently across the floor toward the trapdoor Wraith had blocked with a heavy dresser before leaving. The dresser hasn't moved, but as I watch, the hatch beneath it jiggles slightly.
Click.
The sound of a lock disengaging echoes through the quiet loft. The hatch pushes upward, hitting the bottom of the dresser with a dull thud.
"Shit," a deep voice growls from below.
Not Wraith.
Wraith can't fucking talk.
Adrenaline dumps into my system, washing away any lingering effects of the fever. I scan the room frantically for something—anything—I can use to defend myself. My eyes land on a black hockey stick propped against the wall near Wraith's bed. I lunge for it and grab the heavy glass bottle of cologne I'd sprayed around the loft earlier, too. A decent projectile.
Below the loft, I hear muffled voices arguing.
"—told you this was a bad idea?—"
"—just want to talk to her?—"
"—Wraith will fuckingkillus?—"
The voices grow louder, more heated. There's a scuffling sound, like bodies shoving against each other, and then the hatch pushes upward again, harder this time. The dresser slides an inch across the floor, heavy enough to dig into the hardwood.
I position myself to the side of the hatch, hockey stick raised, ready to swing at whoever comes through. My hands are steady despite the fear pumping through me. This isn't the first time I've had to defend myself against an alpha, not even this week, and I'm sure it won't be the fucking last.
The hatch flies open and a head pops up through the opening. In the dim light, I make out tousled chestnut hair and honey-colored eyes with pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the iris.
