Chapter 8

Chapter

Eight

IVY

T he compound is eerily quiet as I slip out of my room, my bare feet padding softly against the cold concrete floor. The others are gone, save for Whiskey and Wraith, off on whatever secret mission they've deemed too dangerous for me to know about. Even Whiskey, my usual shadow, is nowhere to be seen.

I strain my ears, listening for any sign of movement, but all I hear is the distant sound of Whiskey's snores echoing from the alphas' barracks. A small smile tugs at my lips despite myself. For all his bravado and bluster, the man sleeps like a hibernating bear.

I know I should probably just stay in my room, keep my head down and avoid drawing any unwanted attention. But the walls are starting to close in on me, the weight of my own thoughts and memories pressing down until I feel like I can't breathe.

I need to move, to do something, anything to keep the darkness at bay.

So I wander, my steps taking me deeper into the heart of the compound. It's a sprawling maze of corridors and rooms, most of them locked tight against intrusion. I try the handle of Plague's infirmary, more out of idle curiosity than any real expectation, but it doesn't budge.

I'm not sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

Eventually, I find myself in the large, open space of the training room. Mats cover the floor, and an impressive array of weights and exercise equipment lines the walls. It's a far cry from the cramped, dingy cells of the Refinement Center, where the only physical activity we were allowed was whatever labor they deemed necessary for our "rehabilitation."

I flip the lights off on my way out and continue down the corridor until I reach the study Thane is usually holed up in. The spot he holds most of the meetings they don't want me listening in on. My gaze is drawn to a small alcove tucked away in the corner, and I feel my eyebrows climb in surprise. It's a library, or at least a passable imitation of one. Shelves line the walls, crammed with an eclectic mix of books and manuals.

I drift closer, my fingers trailing over the spines as I read the titles. Most of them are propaganda from the Council, extolling the virtues of the "proud nation" of Reinmich and the importance of maintaining order at any cost. Others are dense tomes on military strategy and tactics, the pages dog-eared and worn from frequent use.

But there, tucked away on the bottom shelf, is a slim volume that catches my eye. I pull it out, a wry smile tugging at my lips as I read the title.

The Omega: A Comprehensive Guide to Biology and Behavior.

I flip it open, scanning the pages with a sort of morbid fascination. It's outdated, filled with the kind of pseudoscientific nonsense that's been used to justify the oppression of omegas for generations. But it's clear that someone has been studying it, making notes in the margins and highlighting key passages.

Preparing for me.

I roll my eyes.

They're trying, in their own fumbling, misguided way. Trying to understand me, to figure out how to deal with the strange creature that's been thrust into their midst.

It's more than anyone at the Center ever did.

I can't help but be amused and a little frustrated that there are entire books written about omegas while the Council doesn't even want us to read. At the Center, we attended classes on how to build a nest, how to knot, how to cook, how to care for the offspring we were expected to churn out, but it was all oriented around how to please an alpha. Never about understanding ourselves. Because, after all, in this world, omegas only exist for alphas.

Anything else is a footnote.

A distraction.

My own mother couldn't read. She could barely write her own name. But she made damn sure I learned. Bartered her knitting with a grizzled old beta in the camp who used to be a school teacher for my lessons.

I remember curling up beside her on the narrow cot in our cramped little tent, a precious book balanced on my knees as I sounded out the words. She would watch me with this look of pure, unguarded love, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

"You're going to do great things one day, little bird," she would whisper, pressing a kiss to my hair. "You're going to fly so far away from here, to a place where no one can clip your wings."

But then the sickness came, the wasting disease that ate her up from the inside out. And no matter how many stories I read to her, no matter how tightly I held her hand... she still slipped away from me.

A sudden prickling at the back of my neck jolts me from my reverie, the hairs standing on end as a shiver races down my spine. I'm being watched.

I drop the book, the pages fluttering as it hits the ground with a dull thud, as if I'm still in that place where they would beat me senseless if they caught me. I spin around, my heart in my throat, and find myself staring into a pair of ice-blue eyes.

Wraith.

He's standing in the doorway, his massive frame seeming to fill the entire space. For a moment, we just stare at each other, the silence—other than the soft, rhythmic whoosh of his gas mask—stretching taut between us.

I feel a flicker of unease, a remnant of the wariness that's been drilled into me for as long as I can remember. Wraith is an unknown quantity, a silent, looming presence that radiates danger like a physical force.

But he saved my life. He kept me alive in that cave, tended to my wounds and held me close when the fever threatened to consume me.

He starts to turn away, to melt back into the shadows, but something in me cries out at the thought of being alone again.

"Wait," I blurt out, my voice sounding small and thin to my own ears. "Please... don't go."

He hesitates, his head cocked to the side like a wary animal. I can see the indecision playing out in his gaze, the conflict between his instincts and his sense of duty.

"I never got the chance to thank you," I say softly, taking a tentative step toward him. "For saving me. For... for everything."

He shifts his weight, a ripple of unease passing through his massive frame. It occurs to me then that he might not know how to respond, and it's not like he can speak.

Then an idea occurs to me.

I glance at the pen and paper resting on the table beside me. "Can you write?"

Wraith pauses a beat before slowly shaking his head, almost awkwardly .

Is he embarrassed?

As soon as the possibility hits me, I feel guilty for even suggesting it.

Most of the people back at the camp couldn't read or write, either. Formal education is a luxury few outside the elite ranks of the Council's favorites can afford.

But Wraith… he was raised with Thane, wasn't he? They're brothers. Could their childhoods really have been so different?

It occurs to me there's so much I still don't know about him. About all of them, but especially the most silent sentinel among them.

I shouldn't want to know. Every bit of information I gain about these alphas puts me at greater risk of getting attached, and yet, I find myself wanting to know more about this one.

Needing to.

"It's okay," I murmur, offering him a small, tentative smile. "I don't know how to sign. But... maybe you could teach me?"

For a long moment, he just stares at me, those piercing blue eyes seeming to bore straight into my soul.

Then, slowly, he nods.

Relief floods through me, a warm, giddy rush I'm not accustomed to. But before I can say anything else, the sound of voices echoes from somewhere down the hall. Servants, from the sound of it.

And if they catch me here, alone with Wraith...

It's clear the others don't want me around him. At least, not unsupervised. And maybe they have reason. But that thought doesn't stop my curiosity.

"Is there somewhere we can go?" I ask, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Somewhere more private?"

Another nod, this one more decisive. He turns and strides off down the corridor, his boots barely making a sound against the concrete despite his size. I have to hurry to keep up, my shorter legs no match for his ground-eating strides.

Wraith leads me deeper into the compound, past the barracks and the training rooms and the armory. Finally, we come to a halt outside a plain, unmarked door. Wraith pushes it open and steps inside, gesturing for me to follow.

It's his room, I realize with a start. Spartan and utilitarian, with little in the way of personal touches. Just a narrow bed that seems too small for him, a battered dresser, and a small desk cluttered with bits of metal and wire .

He must not bunk with the others. Is that a matter of choice?

Or… are they afraid of him?

Another thought that should have me turning on my heels and walking back to my room if I had any sense, and yet here I am.

I perch on the edge of the bed, feeling suddenly awkward and unsure. Wraith looms over me, his bulk seeming to fill the entire space. I have to crane my neck just to meet his gaze, and the sheer size of him sends a shiver down my spine.

Not of fear, though. Something else, something I'm not quite ready to put a name to.

"So," I say, forcing a brightness I don't quite feel into my voice. "Why don't we start with hello?"

Wraith nods, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners—the only indication of a smile behind that vented, muzzle-like mask. It's the first time I've ever seen it. He raises his huge hands, his fingers curling into shapes that seem almost delicate in comparison to the rest of him.

I watch intently as he forms the sign for hello, mimicking the motion with my own slender hands. It's clumsy and unpracticed, but a flicker of warmth blooms in my chest at the sight of his approving nod.

We move on to the alphabet, each letter a new challenge. Some come easier than others, my fingers twisting into unfamiliar configurations. Wraith is patient, guiding me through the motions with a gentleness that belies his intimidating exterior.

Time seems to slip away as we sit there, hands dancing in the space between us. The compound fades away, the ever-present threat of the Council receding to a distant hum. In this moment, there is only the two of us, lost in a language all our own.

And slowly, gradually, I start to relax. The tension eases from my shoulders, the knot of anxiety in my chest unraveling bit by bit.

It's a dangerous feeling, I know. A weakness I can't afford, not in a world that would tear me apart at the first sign of vulnerability.

But here, in this moment…

I can't bring myself to care.

Our hands brush as he shows me a particularly tricky sign, and I feel a spark of something strange and electric race up my arm. I glance up at him, my breath catching in my throat, and find him staring down at me with an intensity that steals the air from my lungs.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. We're frozen, suspended in a moment that feels like it could shatter at the slightest provocation.

And then, slowly, tentatively...

Wraith lifts his hand to my face.

His fingers are rough, calloused and scarred from a lifetime of violence and hardship. But his touch is gentle as he brushes a stray lock of hair back from my forehead, his thumb grazing the shell of my ear.

I lean into the contact, my eyes fluttering closed as a shudder runs through me. I'm not even in heat, but his touch… it affects me.

More than I want it to.

But I can't bring myself to pull away.

Wraith makes a sound, a low, rumbling hum that vibrates through his chest and into mine. I open my eyes to find him watching me, his blue gaze heavy-lidded and filled with a heat that has nothing to do with anger.

Oh.

I know I should pull away, should put some distance between us before this goes any further. But I can't seem to make myself move, can't seem to tear my gaze away from the raw, naked longing in his eyes.

"Wraith," I whisper, my voice little more than a ragged exhale. "I... "

But before I can finish the thought, a sudden crash echoes from somewhere outside the room. We both jump, the moment shattering like a pane of glass.

Wraith is on his feet in an instant, his body coiled and tense as he stares at the door. I scramble up beside him, my heart hammering against my ribs as I strain my ears for any sign of what caused the noise.

Footsteps, heavy and purposeful, growing louder with each passing second. And then, muffled but unmistakable...

Whiskey's voice.

"Ivy? Where the hell are you?"

I find myself reaching for Wraith's hand before I can stop myself. He glances down at me, his brow furrowed in confusion, but he doesn't pull away.

"I have to go," I breathe, the words little more than a frantic rush of air. "If he finds me in here..."

I don't finish the thought, but I don't need to. Somehow, even though he's done nothing wrong, I know Wraith will get blamed for this. For being alone with me.

Wraith nods, a sharp, decisive jerk of his chin. He releases my hand and strides over to the door, cracking it open just wide enough to peer out into the hallway.

For a moment, he's perfectly still, his entire body thrumming with a tightly leashed tension. Then, slowly, he turns to me and nods for me to go.

I slip past him through the open doorway, his scent filling my nostrils as I brush past him. He smells like the forest. Clean and earthy and wild. Like so many of my earliest memories, that scent stirs a mixture of peace and longing—as well as primal fear—within me. The knowledge that no matter what I do, no matter how sharp or hard I become, I am prey and there are predators out there in the darkness who could end me with a single bite.

But that doesn't stop me from wanting to get closer. For the first time in my life, I feel an impulse that's at odds with my own survival.

"I'll practice," I say softly, looking up at him as we stand close in the narrow space of the partially open door. I give him a small smile. "So we can talk."

Wraith's eyes widen slightly. Confusion? He gives me a faint nod, then glances in the direction Whiskey's footsteps have gone off to.

My cue to leave.

I shut the door softly behind me and catch a glimpse of Whiskey's back as he rounds the corner, his shoulders hunched and his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looks... worried, I realize with a start. Agitated in a way I haven't seen him since he found Wraith and me in the cave.

"There you are," Whiskey calls, his voice a strange mix of relief and concern as he catches sight of me. "Been looking everywhere for you."

"I was just... exploring," I lie.

Whiskey's gaze darts to Wraith's room, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. But he doesn't say anything, just jerks his head toward the corridor leading back to the main part of the compound.

"You hungry?" he asks, cocking his head. "Kitchen's closed, but I can rustle us up something. And you already know I'm a world-class chef."

"Debatable," I mutter as I brush past him and head down the hall.

"You sound like fuckin' Valek," Whiskey groans, but he falls into step beside me.

I can't help the smile tugging at my lips. He's not quite as bad as I thought when I first met him.

Guess that's one thing he and Wraith have in common.