Page 449 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Plague, of course, claims he never cries.

And I reassure him he is certainly not crying at all when I drag him behind the bench to kiss him, our lips still tasting of Ivy, and his of Whiskey, and the salt of the tears rolling down his cheeks.

Whiskey is never allowed to choose a restaurant again.

It's a steakhouse, which is fine, but it's fucking noisy enough I could barely hear him until we reached our private dining room, which is saying something.

It's louder than the arena.

He hasn't stopped bellowing once, and now his laugh is booming through the room as he straps the shining Cup into the chair at the head of the table with equipment belts.

“Champ gets the head chair,” he announces, setting a dinner roll on its plate.

"Why does it need bread?" Plague asks him.

"She. She needs bread. She deserves to feel like part of the pack tonight."

Plague closes his eyes.

I rest my hand against the back of his neck and squeeze lightly. “Don’t engage. It feeds him," I purr.

Whiskey twists around to glare at me. “Bro, you make me sound like a fuckin' haunted doll.”

"If the haunted doll shoe fits," Plague mutters.

Whiskey jabs a breadstick at him. "This is why Champ gets the bread and you get shit."

"Oh? Are you going to try to prevent me from ordering because I've offended 'Champ'?" Plague asks him, arching an eyebrow.

"No, I'm gonna eat your fuckin' food."

My mother whistles for attention from the middle of the table, waving her splinted hand around, already bossing a pack of professional alpha athletes. "Caleb, pass the rolls down the table. Rae, get off your phone. Finn, sit up straight. You're not a shrimp, but you'll have the back of one before long if you don't correct your posture."

Caleb sets a fork and knife in front of the Cup with a bow. Whiskey nods at him in solemn approval. They're already best friends.

My worst nightmare, truly.

Rae's kids came in earlier and it went sideways fast. Her youngest took one look at Wraith and burst into squealing tears on the spot, setting off the other. Wraith backed up fast in a panic, trying in vain to hide in his hood, and crushed a server against the wall.

Drinks went everywhere.

Ivy crouched down to eye level with the wailing four-year-old and said, "This is my mate, Wraith. He looks scary, but he's the sweetest person in this whole room. He just won that big shiny cup. Did you watch the game?"

The kid nodded, sniffling.

"He's shy," Ivy had added. "Can you wave at him? He'll wave back."

Now the kid won't stop waving at him.

Every thirty seconds, a tiny hand goes up, and Wraith's huge scarred hand rises to wave back from where his arms are wrapped around Ivy in his lap. His hood is pulled so far forward I can barely even see his eyes.

"This has been going on for twenty minutes," Rae says, but she's grinning. "You've made a friend for life. I'm so sorry."

Wraith's shoulders shake with a uncertain huff and a wary glance at the kid.

The food arrives in waves. Ivy gets crab legs, which she guards with her life from Whiskey. He's soon distracted by my blue rare steak, which has him eyeing it sideways while he's halfway through cutting pieces off his own for the Cup's plate, as if he's thinking about replacing his missing portion with mine.

"I'll eat you instead," I warn him, flashing a hint of fang.