Page 391 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"Is that the feral alpha from the Ghosts?"

"Oh my god, his face…"

"Holy shit, he's huge…"

"Shouldn't be around people..."

"What if he snaps…"

Bans for all if I ran this place.

But all I can do is glare at the worst ones and use myself as a shield between him and them, letting him shadow me as always.

Funny thing is, they fuck off when I look at them.

Most people close enough to get a good look at my mate are at chest level with him and don't try to see past the hood. But the ones who do see his scars are giving him a wide berth, or they stare, or they try not to stare, and if they're with someone else, they whisper and mutter.

He doesn't react. He just keeps his eyes on the floor, which means he's used to it. Worse, he seems almost relieved. Like he was expecting worse, and he can live with constant whispers and stares and open horror.

And he's fighting through this for me.

Whiskey notices. He cranks the volume even higher and starts telling a story about the time he ate an entire bucket of fried chicken on a dare, and whatever attention was briefly on Wraith is on him now.

He knows exactly what he's doing.

I love him so much.

"I'll get the food," Thane says, shooting Nacho Cheese Asshole a look when she glances back at us again like Wraith might bite her. "Ivy, what do you want?"

"The most buttery popcorn they have. So buttery the popcorn is disintegrating."

He heads for the counter, shoulders squared, a man on a mission. He gets stopped by a few fans on the way who just came from getting autographs from Whiskey, and before long, he's surrounded, too.

"We're never getting popcorn," I sigh.

"I will. I don't usually get crowds," Valek says simply, already heading for the counter.

Plague watches him go.

I flash a grin at him. "Getting attached?" I tease, poking him.

Plague scowls half-heartedly at me. "A little," he admits, conveniently drifting toward the darkest wall of the lobby where there's an oversized cardboard standee for the movie.

It's a muscular blonde zombie woman with Gatling guns for arms, firing down into a teeming horde of normal zombies clawing at her legs.

Wow.

Whiskey wasn't exaggerating. I should've known. Despite his bombastic personality, he doesn't actually exaggerate much at all.

"This film is going to be terrible," Plague says, smoothly changing the subject from Valek. He's in his usual black turtleneck, hair loose in neat waves, but he isn't wearing a mask today. In solidarity with Wraith, I guess, even though he's acting like the world's viruses are crawling on every surface here and keeping his hands in his pockets at all times.

"That's the point," I say, coming up alongside him to admire the standee with Wraith by my side.

Thane returns with Valek, each with a drink tray and popcorn buckets, and Whiskey extracts himself from his fan club with a final round of boisterous high-fives.

"Theater twelve," Thane says. "The whole back row's ours. I bought the one in front of it too."

"You bought two rows?"