Chapter 15: Thane

Chapter

Fifteen

THANE

T he gentle sway of the train does nothing to ease the tension coiling in my gut. I force myself to breathe slowly, evenly, as I scan the opulent compartment for the hundredth time. My fingers twitch, itching to grab a weapon that isn't there. We're surrounded by luxury, but all I see are potential threats.

Ivy's scent drifts to me, honeysuckle tinged with anxiety. The urge to comfort her, to wrap her in my arms and shield her from whatever dangers await us, is almost overwhelming.

Every instinct is screaming that we're walking into a trap.

Surhiira .

The name echoes in my mind like a death knell. Everything I know about the isolationist nation clashes violently with our current situation. They don't welcome outsiders. They certainly don't invite them aboard pristine white trains with smiling attendants and endless platters of food.

It doesn't make sense.

None of this makes sense.

My eyes drift to Plague, who sits rigidly by the window, his gaze fixed on the snowy landscape rushing past. His words about "connections" replay in my head, each repetition only deepening my unease. What kind of connections could possibly grant us safe passage into a nation known for greeting trespassers with lethal force?

I'm trying to rationalize it.

Trying to come up with some kind of explanation.

Maybe Plague saved someone important during his time as a civilian doctor. Someone with enough influence to pull strings even in Surhiira. Maybe even a Surhiiran. It's a comforting thought, but the knot in my stomach only tightens.

If it were that simple, why the secrecy?

Why the evasion?

He would've told us if that were the case.

Wouldn't he?

I'm pretty damn sure he would at least want to tell Ivy. They've built a bond, however shaky the foundation. He wouldn't want her to be afraid. She doesn't seem any more nervous than she usually is around people she doesn't know—hell, even people she does know—but I can tell from the way she jumps and glances around at every new sound that she's on edge.

Maybe he wouldn't tell me, but he would tell her.

If it's that simple, at least.

So he's hiding something.

I rake a hand through my hair, frustration building as I try to recall anything substantial about Plague's background. But the harder I grasp for details, the more they slip away like smoke.

How is it possible that after all these years fighting side by side, bleeding together, I know next to nothing about the man?

My eyes drift to him again. He's still staring out the window, jaw clenched, fingers drumming an agitated rhythm on his thigh.

A nervous tic. Interesting.

Usually, he's the picture of cold precision.

Detached.

But not now.

Now, he looks... haunted.

I think back to when Plague first joined our unit, years ago. The details are frustratingly hazy. I remember being impressed by his surgical skill, his ability to patch us up after the bloodiest missions.

But where did he come from?

What was his life before the Ghosts?

Blank. Fucking blank.

I grind my teeth, anger flaring hot in my chest. What kind of leader am I if I don't even know the most basic facts about one of my own men?

Sure, we all have our secrets.

It's part of the job.

But this... this feels different.

Bigger. Dangerous.

Where did he train?

What made him leave the medical field for black ops?

I'm trying in vain to piece together the fragments I do know, but he might as well be a stranger to me.

I glance at the others, wondering if they're having the same realization. Whiskey's brow is furrowed, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced by irritated suspicion. Wraith... well, Wraith is as unreadable as ever. But his strong muscles are tense, a dark wariness in his eyes even as he keeps his head down.

They're all on edge.

And it's my fault.

I should have seen this coming. Should have pushed harder for answers long ago. But I let myself get comfortable. Let myself believe that our shared missions, our brotherhood forged in blood and fire, was enough.

Stupid .

So fucking stupid.

A memory surfaces, hazy and half-formed. Years ago, after a particularly brutal mission. We were drunk on cheap vodka and victory, sprawled around a campfire in some godforsaken forest. Plague had been quieter than usual, staring into the flames with haunted eyes.

Whiskey had asked him then. Point blank. "Where'd you come from, Doc? What made you join this shitshow?"

He'd looked at Whiskey for a long moment, those pale blue eyes unreadable in the flickering light. Then he'd smiled. Not his usual cold smirk, but something sadder. More genuine.

"Sometimes," he'd said softly, "the only way to atone for your sins is to commit greater ones."

Whiskey had cracked up and made some crass remark I don't remember that had kicked off a whole new fight, and I'd brushed it off then, too drunk to catch the weight behind his words.

But now...

Now, I wonder what sins he was trying to atone for.

And what greater ones he's committed since.

The train lurches slightly, rattling the fine china laid out before us. Ivy startles at the sound, pressing closer to Wraith. I have to physically stop myself from going to her. Have to push down the pang of jealousy.

There are bigger concerns right now.

Like the fact that we're hurtling toward a potentially hostile nation on nothing more than Plague's word and endlessly deep mysteries.

With each snow-covered peak we leave behind as we head deeper into the flatter Outer Reaches, I can't shake the feeling we're hurtling toward something far more dangerous than the storm we left behind.

I force myself to take slow, measured breaths, fighting against the urge to pace the length of our luxurious prison. Because that's what this is, isn't it? A gilded cage, drawing us deeper into unknown territory with every turn of the wheels.

I should have pushed harder. Should have demanded answers from Plague the moment he came back from his little "negotiation." But I let my relief at finding a way out of that godforsaken storm—a way to warm our dangerously cold omega—cloud my judgment. Let myself believe I could trust my brotherhood.

Right after one of these bastards just betrayed us all.

And now he's on the train with us.

What the fuck am I thinking?

As if he somehow senses I'm ruminating over him, Plague gets up and slips from the car without a word. He's probably the only one out of the group—Wraith being the other obvious exception—who wouldn't just mutter, "gotta take a piss," so it wouldn't exactly be suspicious under normal circumstances.

But these are anything but.

And he's been shady as fuck.

When Wraith's blue gaze meets mine and a wordless understanding passes between us, I give a nod and he gets up, following Plague out of the car to keep an eye on him.

My gaze drifts to Ivy again, watching her pick cautiously at a star-shaped purple fruit. The protective instinct that's been simmering just beneath the surface since we rescued her threatens to boil over. I want to turn this damn train around and get her as far from Surhiira as possible.

But I can't.

We're committed now.

And whatever happens is my fucking fault.

I'm so lost in my spiraling thoughts that I don't notice Ivy watching me at first. When I finally feel her gaze on me, I blink, startled to find her sea-green eyes studying me with concern.

"Are you okay?" she asks softly.

The gentleness in her voice catches me off guard. I'm not used to anyone worrying about me, least of all our omega. My first instinct is to brush off her concern, to maintain the stoic facade I've spent years perfecting. But something in her expression makes the words die in my throat.

"I'm fine," I manage, but the lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

Ivy frowns, clearly not buying it. Without a word, she gets up, gathering her oversized robe like a flowing skirt, and crosses the compartment to where I'm sitting. My breath catches as she settles onto the plush cushion beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her small frame.

"You don't look fine," she says, her voice low enough that only I can hear.

I open my mouth, ready to deflect again, but the genuine concern in her eyes makes me hesitate. When was the last time anyone bothered to ask how I was feeling? When was the last time I let myself be vulnerable enough to answer honestly?

"I..." I start, then falter.

How can I explain the storm of doubt and fear raging inside me?

How can I admit I feel like I'm failing them all?

Failing her.

Ivy waits patiently, her presence a steady anchor beside me. She doesn't push, doesn't demand. Just offers silent support that I didn't even realize I needed.

Finally, I let out a heavy sigh. "I'm… worried," I admit roughly, keeping my voice down even though I'm sure the other alphas can hear every word. "About all of this. About where we're headed. About what we're getting into."

She nods, understanding dawning in her eyes. "You feel responsible," she says. It's not a question.

"I am responsible," I growl, frustration bleeding into my tone. "I'm supposed to be the leader. Supposed to keep everyone safe. And now we're walking into God knows what because I didn't ask enough questions. Because I didn't push hard enough for answers."

Ivy's small hand comes to rest on my arm, the touch sending electricity through my veins. "You can't control everything," she says softly. "Sometimes we have to let go and trust each other, even when it's hard."

I snort, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. "Yeah, but look where that's gotten us so far. One of our own betrayed us. Another's keeping secrets that could get us all killed. And I..." I trail off, swallowing hard against the lump forming in my throat.

"And you what?" Ivy prompts gently.

"And I don't know if I'm strong enough to protect you all," I whisper, the admission tearing something loose inside me. "Any of you. What if I fail? What if I can't?—"

Ivy's fingers tighten on my arm, cutting off my spiral of self-doubt. "Hey," she says firmly, waiting until I meet her gaze. "You haven't failed anyone. You got us out of that facility. You kept us alive in that storm. And now you're doing everything you can to keep us safe, even when you're not sure of the path ahead."

Her words dent the walls I've built around myself. I want to believe her. Want to see myself through her eyes. But the weight of responsibility pressing down on me is suffocating.

"How can you have so much faith in me?" I ask, hating how vulnerable I sound. "After everything that's happened?"

Her lips curve into a small smile. "Because I've seen your strength," she says simply. "Not just physical strength, but the strength it takes to lead. To make hard choices. To keep going even when everything feels hopeless."

I shake my head, unable to reconcile her words with the doubt gnawing at my insides. "You don't understand. I should have seen this coming. Should have known Plague was hiding something. A good leader wouldn't have?—"

"A good leader trusts his pack," Ivy interrupts gently. "And learns from his mistakes. You're not perfect, Thane. None of us are. But that doesn't mean you're not a good leader."

Her words wrap around me like a balm, soothing some of the jagged edges of my self-doubt. I want to believe her. Want to see myself the way she seems to see me. But years of conditioning, of burying my emotions and shouldering the weight of command alone, make it hard to accept her reassurance.

"I don't know how to do this," I admit, the words barely audible. "How to lead us through... whatever this is."

Ivy shifts closer, her thigh pressing against mine. The contact sends a jolt of warmth through me, grounding me in the moment. "You don't have to do it alone," she says softly. "That's what pack means, right? We support each other. We face challenges together."

All I can do is stare at her.

She gives me a little grin. "Guess that's why I put up with being stuck with all of you. There are good things about being part of a pack."

I let out a shaky breath, her words hitting me harder than I expected. How long have I been carrying this burden alone? How long have I convinced myself that showing any vulnerability would make me a weak leader?

"I'm not used to... this," I gesture vaguely between us. "Talking about... feelings. Doubts. It was always drilled into me that a leader has to be strong. Unshakeable. Brave."

Ivy's hand finds mine, her small fingers intertwining with my larger ones. The simple gesture nearly undoes me. So does the little smile she offers me. "It's only bravery if we're afraid. Otherwise, it's just recklessness."

I stare down at our joined hands, marveling at how such a small touch can make me feel more anchored than I have in years. The walls I've built around myself, the carefully cultivated image of the stoic, unflappable leader, begin to crumble.

We sit in companionable silence for a while, the gentle hiss and rumble of the train fading into background noise along with the muttered argument between Whiskey and Valek about what the stuffed grape leaves are called. For the first time since we boarded this gilded prison, I feel slightly less like we're about to plunge into absolute and utter chaos.

Slightly, but I'll take it.

"Thank you," I say finally, my voice rough. "For listening."

"Everything's going to be okay," Ivy says softly, leaning up to give me a kiss so gentle, it hurts. "We've always figured things out. And we'll do it again."

And somehow, I believe her.