Page 88 of Feral Omega

No. I can't even give voice to the thought, can't let the possibility solidify into something real and horrifying.

Because if she's gone…

If her light has been snuffed out by that vicious beast...

Then I might as well let the merciless cold claim me, too. Let the icy void swallow me whole.

I move forward, not stopping until I get to her.

It takes every ounce of control I possess not to lunge forward and snatch her from Whiskey, to wrap her in the protective circle of my own arms and snarl at the others to back the fuck off.

Mine, the possessive impulse roars through my skull, a primal chant that blots out all logic and reason.

The scent hits me like a sledgehammer to the sternum, cutting off my thoughts in an instant.

Blood. So much blood, thick and coppery on the crisp mountain air.

My gaze snaps to Ivy's still form, taking in the rust-stained bandage wrapped haphazardly around her bicep. Fresh panic washes through me, a jagged shard of ice piercing my heart.

"What happened?" I rasp, already reaching out to probe the blood-soaked dressing with trembling fingers.

"She's hurt," Whiskey growls, the words edged with a hint of reluctant respect. "Took a round to the arm, by the looks of it. Lost a good bit of blood, too."

"Wraith..." The name sticks in my throat like shards of glass, every protective instinct screaming at me to turn and obliterate the threat he poses.

"He didn't do this," Whiskey says, shaking his head sharply. "Ivy said he's the one who bandaged her up, kept her warm through the night. Pretty sure she'd be worm food by now if he hadn't found her first."

I freeze, the words crashing over me in a disorienting wave.

Wraith... saved her?

Protected her instead of slaughtering her like the mindless beast he is?

The very notion is so antithetical to everything I know about that twisted wreck of an alpha that I can scarcely process it. My gaze drifts to where he looms a few paces back, silent and impassive as ever behind that mask.

Those ice-blue eyes bore into me, daring me to say something, to challenge Whiskey's story.

It doesn't make sense.

But I can't find the words, can't muster the anger and outrage that should be blazing through me at the mere thought of anyone laying hands on my obsession.

Because those same destructive hands seem to have saved her life. To have sheltered her from this frozen hell in whatever twisted way they could.

I take a steadying breath, ruthlessly shoving aside the roiling tempest of emotions threatening to overwhelm me. Confusion, relief, the lingering tendrils of terror... all of it is secondary right now. Ivy needs me focused, needs my skills as a healer more than she needs me as her obsessed alpha.

For now.

"We need to get her inside," I growl, already scanning our surroundings. "The mansion has a small clinic. I'll be able to treat her properly there."

Thane wastes no time, already turning on his heel and forging a path back toward the mansion. I trail close on his heels, fingers twitching with the urge to reach out and take Ivy from Whiskey's back.

She's mine, goddammit. Only I should be allowed to touch her, to carry her precious form.

The thought is pure possession, the ravenous hunger of alpha instincts given rein to devour every last shred of reason and logic.

Get a grip, Plague.

I force myself to look away from her, to focus on the path ahead instead of the intoxicating curve of her throat, the swell of those full lips slightly parted on each shallow exhale.

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