Page 321 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

They disappear, Ivy pulling the door closed carefully behind them.

It still bangs.

I pull out my phone, aim the UV light at the enormous splatter on the chair one more time, and snap a photo that will make Plague spontaneously combust.

VALEK

The cuck chair, gentlemen.

Trust me, you're not missing a thing.

Chapter 67

Ivy

I'm fucking terrified.

My brain's been whispering this is going to be bad on a loop while I grip the steering wheel of a blacked-out SUV that's way too big for me.

Beside me, Wraith is slumped in the passenger seat, arms folded over his chest, hood up, gaiter on but loose because he didn't want to keep it off if he was sitting up front. I would've rather he stayed in the back, where he felt safe going without it, but he wanted to sit up front with me and there was fuck all I'd be able to do to convince him not to.

I have a horrible feeling it's going to be the last time he can wear it at all.

Every bump and pothole on the drive from the motel has been its own little nightmare. The SUV's suspension is solid, but it's not magic, and twice I hit seams in the road that made him wince visibly despite him seeming to fight to hide it.

And I can't go slow or we're going to be late.

My phone vibrates in the cupholder. The group chat, probably. I ignore it. It's been going off because Valek's been trolling Plague with gross-out pictures of the motel.

"We're almost there," I tell Wraith softly. I hope the tone conveys the rest. I'm here and I'm calm, and you can be calm too, because I love you and everything is going to be okay.

Except that's kind of a lie, isn't it?

Love won't keep him from becoming a complete recluse if he can't cover his face anymore.

He manages a nod. His blue eyes are open but unfocused, staring off at nothing, completely checked out.

He was worse this morning than yesterday. Noticeably. He couldn't get his mask on for the walk outside without turning white as a sheet. I had to help him, as much as I thought he should leave it off.

And when the fabric settled against his jaw, the sound he made…

I grip the steering wheel harder.

The GPS chirps and announces in its posh voice, Turn right in four hundred feet. Then turn left.

I signal and turn into the parking lot, past the manicured mulch. It's mostly empty, which is good. I find a spot close to the entrance and pull in carefully—gods, the SUV is fucking wide—and kill the engine.

I unbuckle and turn to face Wraith. "Hey. We're here."

Nothing.

"Misha…"

His eyes lift to me finally, blinking.

"I'm going to go inside and check you in," I say. "You stay here. I'll come get you when they're ready. Okay?"

His hands come up. You don't have to.