Page 182 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"That's not what I asked."

She sounds exactly like she did this morning when she told me to eat. The same stubborn tilt of her chin, clearly unwilling to accept bullshit from anybody.

Including me, the pack leader.

Especially me, maybe.

"Yeah," I admit, sighing. "It's still bad."

Even worse after you scared the fucking shit out of me, I think, but I don't say it.

She crawls up the bed toward me. "Scoot."

I move aside, making room for her.

Wraith follows her.

I didn't make enough room for him, but he's already displacing me just by virtue of existing on the same mattress, his giant body taking up so much space I end up dangerously close to tumbling off the side.

I fling myself in a random direction and end up sandwiched between them somehow, head pounding freshly, Ivy already climbing over my torso like a cat, purrs and all.

For the first time, I notice Wraith's face.

The scarf's just draped loosely around his neck. Not pulled up enough to cover his lower face the way it always has been, checked and rechecked obsessively until no sliver of damaged skin is visible except for the scar cutting through his eye.

My eyes lock on the permanently exposed teeth, bright in the red light from my clock, and the scar tissue iridescent in the darkness.

He's not hiding.

I stare at him for too long. I know I do because his blue eyes flick to mine with that wariness I know means don't say anything, please don't make this a thing.

So I don't.

I look away and let Ivy settle against my chest, her small body warm and solid, her purring vibrating through my ribs. Wraith shifts behind her, his massive arm draping over both of us.

This is… strangely familiar.

We used to share a bed sometimes when we were kids. After the worst nights, when the nightmares got bad enough that neither of us could sleep alone, I'd find him in my room or he'd find me in his. We'd pile blankets between and around us and pretend we weren't seeking comfort from each other's presence.

Ivy snuggles closer. When her fingers find my temples, the touch is light and exploratory at first.

"Here?" she murmurs.

"Little higher."

She adjusts, her thumbs pressing into the spots just above my eyebrows where the migraine has set up permanent residence. The pressure is perfect. Firm enough to actually do something, gentle enough not to make me want to vomit.

I groan.

It's an embarrassing sound closer to what Whiskey makes when he finds leftover pizza in the fridge Plague didn't throw out in time than anything a pack leader should produce. But Ivy's fingers are magic and my dignity is suddenly not important anymore.

"You carry so much tension here," she says quietly. Her thumbs rub slow circles into the muscle, working the knots of tightness

along my brow ridge. "Do you always get headaches this bad?"

"Only when my pack loses their collective minds."

Wraith huffs a silent laugh behind her.