Page 336 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

“He hits harder than Whiskey,” I muse, swiping the rest of the blood away from my lip with my thumb and licking it clean.

Ivy whips around. “Are you hurt?”

“Not especially.”

She leaves Wraith to catch my jaw and turn my face toward the sunlight. Her eyes narrow at my cheekbone, then my lip, and my throat, where I'm sure the marks from Wraith's death grip are already darkening.

"The fuck, Valek, your lip!"

Wraith makes a miserable sound behind her.

I glance past her. "Well, you asked me not to hurt him."

“I said, ‘Val, don’t hurt him.’ I didn’t say, ‘Stand there and let him punch you through a wall.’”

“That distinction would have been useful earlier.”

She stares at me.

I stare back, offering a smile that stings.

“You take things too literally,” she grumbles, but her thumbs stroke lightly over my jaw as she releases me.

"Americans just don't say what they mean," I reply, rolling my shoulders.

She rolls her eyes at me before returning to Wraith to take one of his scarred hands. He folds around her immediately, gaze lowered, massive shoulders still trembling with the aftermath.

"Come on." I straighten what remains of my jacket. "Before someone comes looking to see why they heard a warzone."

I lead them around the medical center. Or rather, I lead Ivy, and Wraith follows her, keeping his hood up and his head down. I block any view of him with my body. With his slouching, we're around the same height. I can tell he wants to fuck off to the back of the building again, but if he tries it, we'll just have to have round two right here in the lot.

"Just have one thing to take care of first," I say, going to the rusted brown sedan parked a few spots from Wraith's SUV. The rear bumper is held on with wire and the passenger door is blue, not brown, but much to my delight, it drove like a dream.

She looks at the car. “The fuck, Val?”

“What?”

"How did you buy a car that fast?"

"I always bring cash on a road trip.” I pull the folded motel receipt from my jacket and fish out a pen. “You never know when your card won’t work.”

“You bought a whole fucking car."

"You told me to hurry, love."

I brace the receipt against the rusted hood and write in large block letters.

FREE TO A GOOD HOME

I pause.

It lacks warmth.

I add a large smiley face beneath the message, circle it twice, and tuck the sign beneath the windshield wiper. Then I open the unlocked driver’s door, toss the keys onto the seat, and close it again.

Ivy looks from the sign to me.

“What?”