Page 317 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"I know." She turns into the drink aisle, loading the basket with water bottles and colorful drinks. "He couldn't keep the gaiter on for the full game yesterday, and we were in public. So."

She grabs some ginger ale.

"He had a piece of fucking popcorn and then dissociated. Like he'd survived a bombing."

I take the basket from her because it's getting heavy and she's tiny. She lets me, murmuring a thanks before heading deeper into the aisles.

She really must be worried if she isn't insisting she can carry it on her own.

"What happens," I say carefully, following her, "if the doctor tells him he can't wear a mask anymore?"

Ivy stops walking.

"He'll go completely feral," she says quietly. "That's what Plague's afraid of. We were talking this morning. If he can't cover his face, he'll isolate completely. And feral alphas who isolate…"

She doesn't finish.

I don't think she can.

The cashier behind the register is watching us carefully, eyes pinched beneath the brim of his trucker cap. Watching me, specifically. I ignore him. It's nothing I'm not used to.

"We're not going to let that happen," I tell her.

She looks up at me. "You sound pretty sure."

"I am. We'll put a cute little harness on you that says Emotional Support Omega and hand him the leash. He won't be able to resist."

The worry in her eyes softens and she bumps her shoulder against my arm as we walk to the register together.

The cashier starts ringing up our collection, his eyes traveling from the items to me. Not even bothering to hide it. His eyes linger on my platinum hair, then the scratches still healing on my forearms.

He pauses on the mushroom jerky.

"Where you from?" he asks me.

"Canada," I say pleasantly, with my very best smile.

He snorts. "You don't sound like you're from Canada."

My smile curls and pulls into a slight sneer before I school it into a thin line.

When Whiskey harasses me about this—and he has, multiple times, in multiple creative variations—it rolls off. Whiskey is a golden retriever chasing every tennis ball of curiosity that bounces past his field of vision. There's no malice in it.

This man isn't Whiskey.

This man is looking at my face the way border agents do.

And Ivy is looking at him like she's about to start biting and adding to her finger count. "What's your problem?" she asks. "Seriously."

I give her an impressed once-over.

The cashier stares at her for a second, then mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like bitch.

I lean my forearm on the counter and tilt my head. "What was that, suka?"

His mouth quivers and he keeps his eyes locked on the order, suddenly finding himself unable to look up.

"$19.36," he mumbles.