Page 154 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

The tremor in Thane's hand holding the paper is slight enough that the press corps probably can't see it, but I can. I see the way his thumb presses into the crease of the page, the way his Adam's apple moves on a swallow that takes too long.

Thane lifts his eyes from the paper to the press corps, then back down.

"'I am telling you this because reporters will find some of it and invent the rest. I would rather you have it from me.'"

The room is so silent, I can hear my own heartbeat.

"'What happened on the ice is simple. Wade Kelly recognized Ivy's scent on me. He hit me in the face with his stick until my mask filled with blood and I could not breathe through it. I removed it because I had no other way to stay on the ice, and I was not leaving while he was within reach of her.'"

Valek's knee presses harder against mine.

I press back and keep my eyes forward and my jaw clenched because if I turn around, if I look at Wraith, I will shatter into a thousand pieces on this conference room floor and they will never get me back together again.

So I keep my eyes forward, but I reach up and rest my hand on his, brushing my thumb over his scarred knuckles. He squeezes lightly.

"'I am a feral alpha. The league knows this. They have allowed me to play because I have never completely lost myself on the ice. And I did not lose myself when I protected my mate from Wade Kelly. But I am sorry the children watching the game saw what they saw.'"

Thane's voice has gone rough. The cracks are showing now, spreading through the professional facade, and I watch him fight for every word.

"'Valek Carter is being treated as the aggressor in what came after. He is not. He acted to protect our pack.'"

Valek's breathing changes beside me. A single sharp inhale through his nose, held, released slowly.

"'Ivy is my scent match and my mate. She left Wade Kelly because he hurt her. She is owed protection from him, and she will have my protection from him and everything else that would ever think to harm her.'"

My vision blurs completely. The lights, the cameras, the journalists… all of it dissolves into warm watercolor smears and I blink rapidly, furiously, swallowing against the pressure in my chest that is threatening to crack my ribs open from the inside.

"'If the league decides I no longer belong on the ice, I will accept their decision. I will not say I regret what I did.'"

Thane folds the paper and looks up.

"'And I would do it again.'"

He sets the paper down on the table, smooths it flat with both hands, and steps back from the podium.

Even the pens and shutter clicks have stopped.

From the podium, Eliza steps forward and opens the floor for questions for Thane. The room erupts, voices overlapping and clamoring for a word with the team and pack leader. Hands shoot up. The cameras resume their relentless clicking.

But Wraith doesn't let go of my shoulder.

And I don't let go of his hand.

Chapter 32

Whiskey

MIKHAIL.

I've been chewing on that name like a piece of gristle since the conference.

Because the whole time I've known him, he's been letting us call him Wraith like that was an upgrade and not him dehumanizing himself. I always figured he had some boring name like, I dunno, Bob or something, and he was covering it up with Wraith.

"Your name is fuckin' Mikhail," I say out loud, because I can't help it.

Wraith—MIKHAIL—is sprawled across the couch with his head in Ivy's lap, his eyes closed, the scarf Plague gave him pulled up to just beneath his eyes. He doesn't move, but his middle finger rises with the slow grace of a drawbridge.

"Mikhail Belmont," I continue, because I have a death wish apparently. "Mikhail fucking Belmont. Bro. Bro, that sounds sick. And I didn't know you were Russian. Like, I know you're not blood brothers, but I thought you were boring all-American Wonderbread like Thane. Uhh. No offense, Captain."