Page 408 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

And the woman in the chair looks exactly like I expected from someone who would like a star anise and banana reed diffuser.

Glasses. Purple sweater the same shade she likes in flowers. Gray hair tied back tight enough to give me a sympathy headache, or maybe it's the star anise.

She looks like a tiny evil librarian.

I used to volunteer in a residential care facility. This lady isn't just mean because she's sick. She's got the stink face of someone who's been bad to the bone for so many years, it sank into the lines.

She sizes me up from head to toe in about half a second.

"You have a fat one too?" she says to Ivy.

Oooh, we're off to a wild start.

I look down at myself and grab a handful of belly through my shirt and give it a jiggle.

"Yeah, fair."

I cross the room and set the purple bouquet in her empty vase, arranging them just right. Stems trimmed, greens fanned out, tallest ones in the back.

"There we go. Place was lookin' kinda sad without flowers." I tap the rim of the vase. "Didn't Val bring you some?"

She stares at me. "Val?"

"Yeah. The tall alpha with the statue face and white hair."

Claire's lip curls. "I threw them out."

"Why?"

"They were the wrong color."

I look at the bouquet I just put in.

"These are the same color as his," I say, jabbing my thumb at them.

"No they aren't. Yours are fine."

"Okay. Sure. Cool. But that's 'cause Wraith approved 'em over text," I say. "Sent him a picture in the shop. He picked those exact ones."

Claire's eyes widen. Her fingers dig into the armrests of her chair, and her eyes dart toward the door like she expects seven feet of scarred alpha to come crashing through it.

The fuck does she think he'd do?

Hug her?

"He's not here," I say quickly, holding both hands up. "Relax. He's miles away in the woods, setting up a campsite to mark your future daughter-in-law."

Ivy smiles at that, even though she's radiating so much nervous energy, I'm surprised she doesn't pop like a little overheated popcorn kernel.

"Oh! Almost forgot."

I open up the gift bag hanging off my fingers and pull out a small terracotta pot about the size of a party cup.

Claire watches me with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

I set the venus flytrap on the windowsill beside her chair, right in the sunlight where the flower shop lady told me it'll want to be. The trap heads are bright green with pinkish-red interiors, each wide open.

"Whiskeyyyyy," Ivy hisses, pushing my arm, but she looks like she's about to bust up laughing, so I know telling me off is all performance.