Page 121 of Feral Omega

And it might also be the thing that finally tears us apart.

But Wraith doesn't attack. Instead, slowly, he raises his hands.

Convoy is coming, he signs, the movements sharp and urgent despite the usual clumsiness of his massive hands.

Relief crashes over me like a wave, so intense it nearly buckles my knees. I let out a shaky breath, running a hand through my hair as I turn to the others. Wraith wasn't losing control, wasn't succumbing to the feral madness that always lurks just beneath the surface.

He was trying to warn us.

To give us a chance to prepare.

Wraith hates signing. He uses it as sparingly as he can, and for the most part, we understand each other well enough without needing to use words. But there are some cases where it's necessary. I learned to sign when our father first brought Wraith home, something the old man never bothered to do. Back then, our father—and everyone else—thought he wasn't even capable of learning. Not that it changed anything when that turned out to not be true.

Guilt gnaws at me like a dog with a damn bone.

How am I any better than them?

"How far?" I ask him hoarsely once I find my voice.

Ten minutes, Wraith answers. Fifteen maybe.

Plague is the only one besides me who understands sign language, so I turn to the others to translate. "He's saying he spotted the convoy ten or fifteen minutes out," I say, my voice grim as I meet each of their gazes in turn. "Looks like our timetable just got moved up. We need to get ready."

I let the weight of my next words sink in, the gravity of the situation settling over the room like a shroud.

"What about Ivy?" Valek asks, his cold gaze flickering over to the omega sitting within the shelter of her nest. For the first time since I've known him, there's a hint of softness to it. Something almost human.

"She stays upstairs, out of sight," I answer, turning to Plague. "You've got more of that suppressant shit, right? How much is left?"

"I did bring extra," Plague answers hesitantly. "But the scent of her heat is still lingering around the house. I don't have enough to mask it fully."

For some reason, Ivy's face turns nearly as red as those soft tresses of hers.

"I might have an idea," Valek chimes in.

"Dangerous," I say dryly. "But let us hear it."

"This place has a full-on ventilation system," Valek says, looking around the ceiling. "We could break a few vials into it, let it circulate throughout the house."

I hesitate, glancing over at Plague. "Would that work?"

"Why the hell are you asking him?" Valek asks, clearly insulted.

"Because he's the smart one, asshole," I mutter.

"I was a fucking serial killer!" Valek protests.

"Yeah, one who got caught," Whiskey shoots back.

Valek gives him a filthy look, but he doesn't deny it. Ivy just stares at him, pupils blown wide and mouth hanging open slightly, like that wasn't information she was certain of before.

Guess I'll be on damage control when we get back to the Chateau.

Plague pauses as if considering it. "It's a bit of an out-of-the-box plan, but yes. The way the masking chemical works, it should bond to the scent molecules in the air well enough. It's certainly worth a shot."

"Then we've got a plan," I mutter. "And whether it works or not, Ivy stays here. Two of us keep guard at all times, the rest of us meet the convoy outside. No one steps foot in this mansion. Do I make myself clear?"

They don't have to nod or reply. I know from the looks in their eyes that I have their full assent.

---