Page 19 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

I don't know what to make of it. I just met the rest of the pack, and my inner omega is already plucking tentatively at the same threads of the pack bonds Thane is talking about.

I’ve already chosen Wraith. It makes sense that the rest of his bonded pack wouldn’t just be random alphas to me, however little I know them.

And after three of the four alphas in the Ghosts pack got me through my heat, regardless of how I'm tempted to keep the walls up, my omega side is unfurling hesitant tendrils of her own and reaching out toward theirs.

Like ivy.

"I think you guys need me as much as I need you," I say quietly.

"Maybe," Thane admits. "Probably. Okay. Definitely."

The three of us lie there in the dark tent, surrounded by the sounds of rain and forest and night. It's not the motel room we planned on. It's not comfortable or warm or safe in any conventional sense.

But somehow, with these two alphas wrapped around me, it feels like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

Chapter 3

Plague

The exam room reeks even through the black surgical mask I'm sure does fuck-all to protect me from the hospital filth.

And not just of the usual hospital scents like disinfectant and antibacterial cleaners, either. Oh, no. It can't be that easy.

It smells like piss and drunk alpha vomit.

And I'm sitting on a paper-covered table that crinkles with every breath, trying very hard not to look at Whiskey on the adjacent table.

Trying and failing spectacularly.

We're both shirtless for the examinations, which already has me on edge because of the scar on my chest I don't exactly enjoy showing off, and apparently my eyes have decided this is the perfect time to betray every ounce of my self-control.

Whiskey's thick torso practically glows in the overhead lights.

I've seen him naked. Many times, often unnecessarily, because he takes every opportunity he gets to disrobe. Locker rooms don't leave room for modesty, and after recent events—fuck, don't think about recent events—I've seen considerably more than usual.

But somehow, right now, in this sterile exam room with an older doctor bustling between us, it hits different.

Maybe because now I know exactly what that warm, soft, strong body feels like pressed against mine. What those massive hands feel like tangled in my hair. What growling sounds he makes when he⁠—

For fuck's sake, Plague, STOP IT.

I force my gaze to the wall, studying the anatomical poster of the human spine with intense focus that would be better spent literally anywhere else.

"Oh my," the doctor says appreciatively, looking over Whiskey. "You're a big guy, aren't you?"

My eyes narrow slightly.

Not exactly professional, but she's old enough to get away with it.

Whiskey just grins like she just handed him a fucking trophy. "Yeah, I get that a lot. My omega loves the extra padding. Says I'm made for cuddling."

I roll my eyes.

The doctor's hands linger on Whiskey's chest, pressing along his ribs and abdomen with what I'm fairly certain is unnecessary thoroughness. "Well, she's a lucky girl. Any pain when I press here?"

"Nah, I'm good."

"And here?"