Page 337 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

“Nothing.” She presses her lips together. “That smiley face really sells it.”

“Thank you. I thought so, too."

We cross to Wraith’s SUV. I unlock it and open the driver’s door before pointing toward the rear seats.

“Sit behind me in the back with Wraith so he doesn’t change his mind and try to throttle me.”

Wraith’s head drops lower.

Ivy squeezes his hand. “He’s kidding.”

I'll let him believe that.

Wraith signs another apology, smaller this time, and climbs into the back with Ivy. She immediately tucks herself under his arm as he folds his enormous body around her.

“There’s camping shit in the back of the SUV,” she tells me.

“Perfect. Because there’s actual shit under the bed in the motel.”

Chapter 71

Ivy

Wraith has chopped enough wood to survive the winter.

The pile beside him reaches almost to my shoulder, and he’s still going. Another log lands on the stump. His scarred hand steadies it, fingers spreading over the bark, and the axe rises over his head.

His entire back flexes.

Holy fuck.

The axe crashes down with a clean, brutal crack, splitting the log straight through the center. Both halves tumble into the mud.

Wraith immediately reaches for another.

Valek is keeping him busy on purpose. I can tell because no sane person looks at our meager campsite and decides what we desperately need is more fuel.

Wraith isn’t sane right now, though.

He’s okay.

Mostly.

He hasn’t shown any signs of pain since the injections settled in. No twitching hands or shallow breathing. No glazed-over stare while the nerves in his face try to cook him alive from the inside. And I know it's because he isn't wearing a mask, and he's getting some fresh air.

But he’s off.

Quiet, even for him. Restless. Every time he looks at Valek’s bruised cheekbone or split lip, his shoulders curl forward and his scarred hands clench.

So Valek keeps handing him shit to do.

Move the rocks.

Secure the tarp.

Check the tent.

Chop wood.