Page 141 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"You don't know that."

"I do." No hesitation. Just Valek stating a fact with the same conviction he brings to everything. "I've done this before. Not the—" He gestures vaguely. "—hospital infiltration, specifically. But the ensuring-someone-never-becomes-a-problem-again-via-light-terrorism part, yes."

He grins that wolfish smile of his and it goes straight to my fucking core for some reason.

The bathroom door bangs open and Whiskey emerges in a cloud of steam, a towel slung low around his hips. Water drips from his chestnut hair down the thick column of his neck, tracking over his broad chest and the padded muscle of his torso. He's scrubbing at his head with a second towel, biceps flexing with the movement.

He looks like a calendar model for a lumberjack charity.

"Correction," Whiskey announces, dropping the towel from his hair and pointing at Valek. "I terrified Wade. You just did the… creepy knife thing."

Valek's expression doesn't change. "I never said who terrified him more. I do think your over-the-top bullshit was effective, yes. Squeezing yourself through a window was decidedly less intimidating."

Whiskey glares at him mid-towel-scrub. "Only one of us made Wade scream into his own mouth and it wasn't you." He glances at me, his brow furrowing. "Uh. Sorry."

I snort. "No need to apologize."

Whiskey gives me a lopsided grin. "He really did, by the way. Scream."

A shadow fills the doorway behind Whiskey.

Seven feet of shadow with burning blue eyes.

Now it's Whiskey's turn to scream.

"What the FUCK, bro!" Whiskey yelps, jerking sideways so hard he almost loses his towel. He clutches it to his hip with one hand and presses the other against his chest. "How do you DO that? You're the size of a fucking BUILDING."

Valek lets out a low, rough cackle at that.

But Wraith ignores Whiskey entirely. Those tired blue eyes find me and don't leave, even as he reaches up to check the bandages covering his lower face.

“Come here,” I say, sinking to the floor and leaning against the wall, patting my thigh.

He crosses the room in three long strides and collapses beside me. His head drops into my lap, his arms wrap around my waist, and he buries his bandaged face against my stomach with a low exhale that seems to empty him completely.

I sink my fingers into his dark hair and scratch lightly at his scalp.

He melts.

Whiskey watches this from the doorway, still clutching his towel, water pooling on the floor around his bare feet. His expression softens and then he starts smirking again because he's too much of a human tornado to let himself have serious feelings.

"You know," he says, "if Thane and Plague wake up cuddled together in that nest, they're both gonna flip." His grin widens. "Their shippers would lose their minds."

"People ship Thane and Plague?" I ask, blinking in surprise.

"Oh, wildcat. They even have a ship name. It's Plane. And trust me, I'm gonna be telling you all about the fandom in the morning. And you need me to tell you everything I know because we're all gonna be dealing with PR shit for a while and the fans are… um. Fucking nuts."

Wraith gives a soft distressed growl from where his face is buried in my lap.

I stroke his hair and the growl fades.

"Hey, we have a ship name now, too, big guy," Whiskey adds, as if that's going to help. "You wanna know what that is?"

Wraith lifts his head just enough to fix Whiskey with a glare that could curdle milk. Those blue eyes, bloodshot and exhausted above the bandages, communicate a very clear message.

Absolutely fucking not.

Whiskey's palms fly up. "Okay. Cool. Good. Never find out it's Bear Shark, then."