Page 186 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"PLAGUE, IT'S FINE⁠—"

Whiskey's voice carries up through the floor like a foghorn.

Wraith's head snaps up. Thane jolts awake beneath me with a groan, one arm flying over his eyes.

"—IT'S JUST A LITTLE BURN, IT'S NOT EVEN BLEEDING⁠—"

"Then why is the skin coming off, Whiskey?!"

I'm already untangling myself from the pile. "What the fuck are they doing?"

Thane drags his arm off his face, squinting at the ceiling. "It's seven in the morning."

It's Whiskey, Wraith signs, already rolling out of bed.

I scramble off the mattress and Wraith catches me by the waist before I can faceplant over Thane's shoes. He sets me down gently, then reaches for his scarf where it's tangled in the sheets. He loops it loosely around his neck, the fabric draping low, not pulled up.

Just in case. But actually not hiding, for once.

Wow.

The three of us spill out into the hallway and down the stairs, and the scene that greets us in the kitchen is exactly as chaotic as I expected and maybe slightly hoped.

Whiskey is standing in the middle of the kitchen, shirtless, his red flannel pants slung low, with an angry red mark blooming across the lower left side of his stomach. Plague has him cornered against the counter, gloved hands hovering over the burn, his disposable mask back in place and his dark hair pulled into a hasty tail, half of it already out.

"Hold still," Plague snaps.

"I am holding still!”

"You're flexing!"

“I’m fuckin’ ticklish, bro!”

Valek is at the stove, calmly flipping eggs and pancakes, looking entirely unbothered by the chaos two feet away. He's already dressed, white hair still damp, a dish towel slung over one shoulder like he's been awake for hours.

"What happened?" I ask.

Whiskey's head whips toward me, his face lighting up. "Wildcat! Morning! So funny story⁠—"

"He tried to flip a pancake without a spatula," Valek says flatly. "With the pan. While shirtless."

"I was just trying out a new technique."

"And now you have a third-degree burn," Plague hisses. "Some technique."

"It's a first-degree burn at most," Whiskey corrects. "Don't be dramatic."

Plague looks like he's considering finishing the job himself. He prods the edge of the mark and Whiskey yelps, jerking away.

"OW—okay, that one hurt⁠—"

"Good."

I move closer to inspect the damage while Wraith hovers behind me, peering down with a furrowed brow. The burn isn't serious. Red and angry, the skin a little raw at the center, but nothing that won't heal in a few days.

"You'll live," I tell Whiskey, but I give his stomach a kiss to make him feel better.

He turns beet red. "See?" He gestures at me triumphantly. "She's basically a doctor. And she has the best medicine. Omega magic. I’m already feeling just fine."