Page 159 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Gods know they played some serious motherfucking chess on the motherfucking plane. Now they're playing chess with words.

I shove a spring roll in my mouth whole.

It's too big. I realize it's too big while I'm doing it. But I commit to it anyway because the alternative is saying something I'll regret, like hey Plague remember when I came in your mouth and you actually shut up for a minute or hey Valek how about you flirt with someone who doesn't already have a complicated thing going with another alpha even though neither of us will fucking admit it.

Thane catches my eye from where he's settled across the coffee table and raises his water glass in a silent toast.

I choke down the spring roll and raise my beer in return.

Here's to not knowing a godsdamned thing.

Ivy stretches and rises to her feet, Wraith sliding off her lap with a low, groggy growl and faceplanting in the couch, before she starts stacking their containers together. The guy's so fucking wiped, it's like his bones aren't in his body anymore.

"We're going to head upstairs to eat," she says softly.

Wraith lifts his head and looks at her. Worry flickers behind the exhaustion in his blue eyes.

Ivy smiles sweetly at him and pets his head.

"Extra spring rolls in the bag," I tell them, because I don't know what else to say. "Like, a lot of extra. I may have gone overboard."

Ivy smiles at me now and gives me the damn butterflies again. "Thanks, Whiskey."

Wraith unfolds himself from the couch and gathers their remaining containers. He shadows her all the way to the door since we haven't unspackled the loft entrance yet, so close I'm surprised he doesn't trip over her.

Guess he still won't eat around us. And they have a lot to discuss, considering she knows Wraith's birth name now.

Mikhail.

Fucking hell, I'm never gonna get over that, am I?

Chapter 33

Plague

The food containers need to be dealt with.

That's the first thought that locks into place after the door closes behind Wraith and Ivy, after Thane wanders off and says he's going to bed early before his skull cracks open.

Whiskey and Valek don't move when I stand.

Valek remains in the armchair with his book, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee in that too-casual arrangement that wants very badly to be mistaken for relaxation.

Whiskey is sprawled in front of the couch on the floor, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, arms behind his head, shirt riding up to show a sliver of stomach.

As if he doesn't know exactly what he's doing to me.

Muttering, I pick up the nearest empty container and put the rest of my food in it. I snap the lid onto it angrily enough to jar it.

And now there's green curry residue on my arm.

How terrible.

Grimacing, I carry the stack of containers to the kitchen. The lights are too bright and I have a migraine brewing. I flip the switch and use the under-cabinet lighting instead, because the main light makes the grease streaks on the countertop too visible and I'm already on edge.

When I come back into the living room, Valek hasn't moved. But Whiskey has. He's sat up, turned so he's facing the armchair more than the couch, elbows on his knees, and when I come in, his eyes track me the full length of the room.

I pick up my laptop from where I left it on the couch and tuck it under my arm like a shield. Whiskey's honey-brown eyes follow the movement.