Page 419 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Then at the mattress.

"No. I'm too fucking tired." He drops the towel over the edge of the bed onto the floor, and I watch his eye twitch as he does it. "Besides, you… licked most of it off. So."

"I did," I confirm, handing him the second glass.

He drinks half of it in one pull and hands it back with a reluctantly muttered "thanks."

I set it aside and stretch out next to him.

He doesn't protest or try to struggle all that much when I hook my arm around his waist and drag him back against my body, which tells me exactly how far gone he is. But he does make an irritated little sound.

"You're warm," he mutters, accusatory, already half asleep again.

"Mm."

His breathing evens out within the minute. I lie there in the dark and listen to it, thinking about how completely unarmed I am right now, and how little I mind, and how much that should frighten me.

And somewhere, off in the mountains, I feel the slight warmth of Ivy humming in our bond. Faint because of the distance, which is a torment in and of itself, but ever present.

I can feel all of them.

The loudest, the equivalent of a thunderstorm, roils closer by the second.

The door bangs open.

Light from the hall floods across the bed and Plague jerks awake with a snarl, and I have him pinned against my chest with one hand before he can go anywhere.

Whiskey stands in the doorway with a bowl of dry cereal.

"Bro."

"Get out," Plague croaks.

Whiskey looks at us, at the arm around Plague's waist and Plague glowering at him like he's going to kill him if he keeps looking at this, and a huge grin spreads across his face.

"Aww."

"Whiskey!" Plague grits out.

"You guys are cuddling!"

Plague thrashes with renewed vigor. I let him go and he sits up, panting, tugging the duvet uselessly even though he's already covered.

Whiskey sets the cereal bowl on the dresser and strips his clothes off with alarming speed for an alpha his size. He vaults onto the bed on Plague's other side hard enough that something snaps and sets Plague off into a muttering, cursing rage.

"Move over, Christmas," Whiskey grunts at me, shoving against us.

"Christmas," I repeat flatly.

"It's your birthday, so it's your name now, ice bro." He shoves himself in harder and throws one enormous arm over both of us, crushing Plague between us enthusiastically. "Sandwich formation. Squash the doctor!"

"I'm not a doctor," Plague growls. "I never completed—oof! Whiskey. I can't fucking breathe."

"That's the point." Whiskey kisses his forehead, squeezing him. "Shhh. Only sleep now."

He presses a finger against Plague's lips to silence him.

Plague makes a sound like a punctured tire, but he drops his head back against the pillow in defeat.