Chapter 20: Ivy

Chapter

Twenty

IVY

M y mind spins as we follow the queen through yet another set of impossibly ornate archways. Every revelation about Plague—about Hamsa —feels like another piece of a puzzle I've been wondering about for so long.

Plague is a prince.

A fucking prince.

The guest wing unfolds before us in a symphony of white and gold. Delicate tapestries flutter against the walls, their threads catching the light like liquid metal. The warm glow from brass lanterns casts dancing prisms across intricate geometric patterns carved into the ceiling.

Everything is so pristine, so perfect.

Untouched by war.

I never knew places like this exist. And judging from the wary way Thane, Whiskey, Wraith, and Valek are glancing around, tense and on edge, I'm not the only one.

A group of attendants materializes from alcoves I hadn't even noticed, their white robes rustling as they bow deeply. They carry stacks of clothing that look softer than anything I've ever touched, and medical supplies that glint with surgical precision.

"Please," one of them says, her voice soft and concerned beneath her veil. "Let us tend to your wounds."

My alphas exchange wary glances. Even after everything we've been through, accepting help from strangers doesn't come easily to any of us. But exhaustion and pain win out over paranoia, and one by one, they allow themselves to be guided to cushioned benches.

I watch as gentle hands begin cleaning and stitching the various cuts and gashes we've accumulated. The attendants work with practiced efficiency, their movements fluid and precise. One of them approaches me with a bowl of warm, herb-scented water and clean cloths.

"May I?" she asks softly.

I nod, though every instinct screams at me to pull away when her fingers brush my skin. She works quickly, cleaning the grime from my face and arms. The sparkling water turns a murky brown. When she urges me to remove my robe, I'm more reluctant. I don't like being naked around strangers.

But my need to wash off and feel clean again outweighs the awkwardness. I shrug out of the robe and let her scrub at me, trying not to think about it too much.

A low growl from Wraith draws my attention. He's pressed himself into a corner, massive frame hunched inward as several attendants hover nearby with medical supplies. A low, continuous rumble vibrates through his chest.

Without thinking, I get up and move to his side.

His blue eyes dart to me.

"It's okay," I murmur, settling onto the bench beside him. My hand finds his arm, feeling the corded muscles bunched beneath his skin. "They just want to help."

Wraith's growl deepens. I stroke his arm soothingly, trying to project calm I don't entirely feel.

"Please, let us at least look at that gash," one of the attendants murmurs, her veil swaying as she gestures to the deep wound in Wraith's side.

I feel Wraith's muscles tense beneath my palm, ready to bolt. His breathing quickens, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. Is he having flashbacks to being experimented on?

"I'm right here," I whisper, squeezing his arm.

He turns his face away with another growl, but allows the attendant to look at his bloodied wound. She makes a soft sound of concern. "This needs proper cleaning and stitches." She reaches for her supplies, movements careful and precise. "The risk of infection?—"

Wraith flinches when she touches him. I don't blame him. Not after what I now know about his past.

"Shh," I soothe, squeezing his arm. "They're not like the others."

His blue eyes find mine, filled with feral terror I know can boil over into aggression if he's pushed enough. But he doesn't pull away as the attendant begins cleaning the wound with a soft towel that smells of herbs. I can feel him trembling from the exertion of holding still.

"There," the attendant says softly. "Not so bad, is it?"

" Ow ! Fuck!" Whiskey's pained bellowing echoes across the guest wing, catching Wraith's attention immediately. The feral alpha's head snaps up and his eyes lock on Whiskey. "Watch it with those needles, would you?"

I glance over to see the huge alpha grimacing on his cushioned bench as an attendant tries to stitch a deep gash on his shoulder. His massive frame dwarfs the poor woman, who somehow maintains her composure despite his constant fidgeting.

"If you would hold still, honored guest, this would be much easier," she says with infinite patience, her veil swaying as she works.

"I am holding still," Whiskey grumbles. "You're stabbing me on purpose."

"Yes, that's the point of stitches," the attendant says dryly. "Perhaps if you talked less, it would be easier for us both."

Valek's harsh laugh drifts from his own bench. "She has your number, oaf."

"Shut the fuck up," Whiskey snaps. "At least I'm not seeing shit."

"I'm not seeing shit, I'm seeing birds," Valek replies simply.

I bite back a smile as Whiskey launches into another round of creative cursing. The familiar bickering helps ease some of the tension coiled in my gut.

It's almost... normal.

As normal as anything can be in this impossible place.

Wraith tenses up again as the attendant begins stitching his wound. His jaw clenches beneath the white scarf, but he stays still. I stroke my thumb across his scarred knuckles, offering what comfort I can.

"Mother fucker !" Whiskey snarls. "That one definitely wasn't necessary!"

"My deepest apologies," his attendant says serenely.

Even Thane cracks a smile at that, though he quickly schools his expression back to stern neutrality. He's handling his own treatment with stoic grace, barely flinching as an attendant cleans a nasty cut above his eye.

My attention drifts to Plague, who stands apart from everyone else, staring out one of the arched windows. He hasn't said a word since we entered the guest wing. The weight of his secrets hangs heavy in the air, making the space between us feel vast despite the relatively small room.

The queen stands beside him, but she isn't speaking, either. They're just standing together in companionable silence, looking out over the kingdom. Though once in a while, she looks up at him, the ghost of a smile on her lips.

She's clearly not planning on executing him.

Good.

I won't have to become an assassin, then.

A sharp intake of breath draws my focus back to Wraith. The attendant helping him has frozen, her eyes fixed on where his scarf has slipped down slightly, revealing more of his face than he usually allows anyone to see.

"Oh," she breathes softly. "Those look painful. Would you let me see?"

Wraith's entire body goes rigid. He shakes his head firmly, one hand coming up to adjust the scarf back into place.

"Please," she presses gently. "We might be able to help."

His blue eyes dart to mine, filled with uncertainty and barely concealed panic. I squeeze his hand reassuringly.

"It's okay," I murmur.

He stares at me for a long moment, muscles tight beneath my hand. Then, with agonizing slowness, he reaches up and pulls the scarf down from his face, unable to meet the attendant's concerned gaze.

The attendant can't quite hide her wince, but there's no horror in her expression. Only deep sympathy as she takes in the full extent of his disfigurement. The exposed sharp teeth and sinew. The deep furrows of scar tissue.

"May I?" she asks softly, her hand hovering near his face.

Wraith's breathing quickens, but he gives a jerky nod. Her fingers ghost over his scars with impossible gentleness, mapping the damage. "Does this hurt?"

He shrugs, but I can feel him trembling. Can see the way he grits his sharp teeth even at her light touch. It's not just that he hates being seen, either. He's clearly in pain.

His hands move in sharp, agitated signs.

No one tries to fix. Leave it.

"He says he doesn't want anyone doing anything to his face," I translate, keeping my voice gentle. "And he has issues with medication like anesthesia, too."

The attendant nods, withdrawing her hand. "To be honest, we couldn't fully repair damage this extensive even if that weren't a problem, anyway. Some things are beyond even our abilities." She pauses, considering. "But we could smooth the scarring somewhat with laser therapy," she says to him. "It wouldn't be invasive, and it would help with the pain, if you're interested."

Wraith starts shaking his head, then hesitates, his hard blue eyes flicking to me as he tugs the scarf back up. His gaze softens fractionally. Not much, but a little.

Maybe, he signs with clear reluctance.

I let out a relieved breath. I love Wraith completely. I don't care what he looks like. It never mattered before, and it doesn't matter now. But it does matter to me that he's in pain.

The attendant's eyes crinkle with understanding. "There's no rush to decide. The offer stands whenever you're ready." She turns back to finishing the stitches in his side, letting the subject drop.

I lean closer, pressing my forehead against his shoulder. His arm comes up to wrap around me automatically, and I feel some of the tension leaving his body. Whether from relief that she's stopped pressing about his face or from the comfort of my touch, I'm not sure.

Probably both.

Another sharp yelp from Whiskey breaks the moment. "That's it! I'm doing my own fucking stitches."

"As you wish," his attendant says serenely, though she makes no move to hand over her needle. "Though I should warn you, the last patient who tried that ended up sewing his own fingers together."

Even Wraith's chest rumbles with silent laughter at that.

Valek is on surprisingly good behavior as the attendants examine his head and the back of his neck. Actually, he seems to be enjoying the poking and prodding, a lazy grin curving his lips even though one is pushing her finger into the cut on the back of his neck.

The attendant checking his scalp gives him a wary look. "Are you alright?" she asks hesitantly, as if she isn't sure she wants to know.

"He's not alright. This is awful," says the one poking into his neck. "They chipped him like a dog. Look, there are still fibers laced into his spinal column." She shows the other attendant, who leans in to examine the wound. "Who would do such a thing to another person?"

"Common practice in Fucklandia," Valek says smoothly.

The attendants exchange horrified glances. One of them quickly prepares some kind of solution while the other begins carefully extracting the embedded fibers. Each time she pulls one free, Valek's shoulders tense slightly and his face twitches.

"No wonder he's so strange," the other attendant mutters. "The chemicals in the broken fibers were likely poisoning him."

"Drugs, too," Valek adds. "And a few head injuries."

"He's always strange," I chime in. "But does that explain why he's acting loopy? He's been weirder than usual lately, and that's saying something."

"Could be," one of the attendants muses. "But there were head injuries?"

"A few," I say dryly.

They don't need to know who gave him the first one.

He's trying so hard to maintain his usual smug demeanor, but I can see the cracks in his mask. The way his silver eyes dart around the room like a cornered animal. The slight shake in his hands as he grips the edge of the cushioned bench.

I'm still so pissed at him.

Beyond pissed, actually.

And I know he doesn't deserve to be comforted after everything he's done. After betraying the pack. Betraying me. Putting us all through hell. Nearly getting us all killed.

But I get up anyway and go to him.

I sit on the bench at his side and wrap my hand around his. As much as I can, anyway. He may be leaner than Thane, Wraith, and Whiskey, but his hands are still huge and strong.

Valek's grin turns toward me and I have to fight to not be infuriated by the smug tilt in his lips. The only reason I win that little battle is because I know his asshole act is mostly just that. An act.

"What is this, little omega?" he purrs. "Have you forgiven me already?"

"No," I say flatly.

He looks like he wants to say something that'll change my mind about offering him some comfort, but to my surprise, he holds back. Guess even Valek is capable of learning new things.

Whiskey snorts from across the room. "I could've used some hand holding, too, you know," he says. "And I didn't kidnap anyone or fuck us all over."

"I'll come hold your hand after," I promise him.

"It's a little late," Whiskey grunts.

"Your pupils are still extremely dilated," the first attendant notes to Valek, drawing my attention back to him as she tilts his face up to examine his eyes with a pen light. "Whatever they gave you was quite potent. I can give you something to help clear it from your system, if you'd like?"

Valek's throat works as he swallows. "That would be... appreciated."

She prepares an injection with practiced efficiency, and I notice how Valek deliberately glances away when she administers it. I give his hand a squeeze.

Interesting.

The fearless psychopath doesn't like needles.

"There," she says softly. "The effects should begin reversing within the hour. Though you may experience some discomfort as the drugs leave your system."

"Wonderful," Valek mutters. "I do so enjoy a good withdrawal."

I shouldn't feel bad for him. I really fucking shouldn't. But watching him try to maintain his carefully constructed walls while these strangers tend to the evidence of his own trauma...

It's at least harder to hate him than it was an hour ago.

Still going to make him work for it though.

The attendants are just finishing up with Valek when the queen reenters the guest wing. I didn't even notice she'd left. The way she moves reminds me of Plague. Of Hamsa. That same fluid grace that always made him seem otherworldly.

"Once you've all had a chance to rest," she says, her musical voice carrying easily through the room, "I would be honored if you would join me for dinner in the royal hall. Tonight, of course, not anytime soon."

My stomach does a nervous flip.

Royal hall .

I'm a feral omega.

I don't belong in a palace.

"If the food and drink is anything like what we had on the train," Whiskey says eagerly, "we wouldn't miss it for anything."

The queen's eyes warm up a bit. "I believe you'll find our hospitality quite satisfactory here, too," she says. Then her gaze shifts to her son, softening further. "We have much to discuss, but it can wait until your pack has recovered. After all, we have time now, don't we, Hamsa?"

He stiffens slightly at the use of his real name. But he inclines his head in a slight bow. "Yes."

Her fingertips ghost on his arm as she turns, her pristine white robes whispering on the marble. Then she glides from the room and the attendants follow, taking the used supplies with them.

The moment the door closes behind her, everyone rounds on Plague.

"Bro, I want fucking answers, and I want them now," Whiskey says, gesturing wildly. "You're a fuckin' prince and you never thought to mention it?"

"When exactly should I have brought it up?" Plague asks dryly. "During firefights? Mission briefings? Tea time?"

"We don't have tea time," Whiskey sputters. "Fuck, if tea time is what you've been pining for, no wonder you bitch and moan about having to settle for beer and water and?—"

"Shut up," Thane cuts in, his deep voice carrying that edge of command that usually makes everyone fall in line. "What I want to know is why you ran. What happened that made a prince abandon everything and join a pack of killers?"

I watch Plague carefully, noting the way his fingers drum against his thigh. That nervous tic I noticed earlier. Seems he's a hell of a lot more nervous than usual lately.

"It's complicated," he says tightly.

"Un-complicate it," Valek drawls from his bench. "We have time."

Plague's pale eyes flash dangerously. "No, we don't. What we have is a few hours to rest before dining with the queen of Surhiira. My mother. I suggest you all use that time wisely."

"Bullshit," Whiskey snaps. "You don't get to drop this bomb on us and then just?—"

"I get to do whatever I damn well please," Plague snarls.

The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. I've never heard him speak like that before. Never seen this side of him. But beneath the cold rage, I catch something else in his voice.

Fear.

"Plague," I say softly, drawing his attention. I step closer to him, but he flinches away even though I'm nowhere near close enough to touch him. The others fall silent, watching us. "We're just worried about you."

His expression softens fractionally as he meets my gaze. "Don't be," he says, but there's a gentleness in his voice that wasn't there a moment ago. "I told you before. You can trust me."

"But you don't trust us," Thane says flatly.

"I trust you with my life," Plague replies. "I trust you with her life. But this..." He gestures vaguely at our opulent surroundings. "This is something else entirely."

"What are you afraid of?" I ask quietly.

The question seems to catch him off guard. For a moment, raw vulnerability flashes across his features. Then his walls slam back up.

"Get some rest," he says, turning away. "You'll need it for tonight."

Well, that's not ominous at all.

He strides toward one of the archways leading deeper into the guest wing, his movements precise and controlled. But I catch the slight tremor in his hands, the tension in his shoulders.

He's panicking.

And I need to figure out why.