Page 53 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Instead, I'm trapped at thirty-five thousand feet with two alphas who stalked me all the way to fucking Canada, and then we nearly killed each other.

I bribed another passenger for a seat switch so I could sit as close to these idiots as possible.

I want to keep an eye on them. After the stunts they've pulled over the past few days, that's hardly unreasonable.

And I enjoy a morsel of psychological torment as a treat now and then.

Across the aisle, Whiskey is wedged into his seat like a grizzly bear stuffed into a dog crate. Plague is pressed rigidly against the window beside him, clearly agonized by the other alpha. Or perhaps the agony is focus on strengthening his immune system through sheer will.

A flight attendant comes up the aisle and Whiskey perks up like if he looks extra eager, he won't be overlooked if it's time for snacks. It isn't, and he deflates.

"So," Whiskey starts, because apparently silence is physically painful for him, and it's worse now that he has to wait longer for salted peanuts. "Your family seems nice."

It takes me a moment to realize he's talking to me. When I do, I don't respond. Just keep watching clouds roll past below us.

"Your mom's pretty cool. And your brothers⁠—"

"Siblings," I correct without looking at him. "I have a sister too."

"I was gonna say brothers and sister, bro. I'm not a misanthrope."

"Misogynist," Plague corrects under his breath.

"Whatever. They're all..." Whiskey trails off, probably searching for the right word that won't get him kicked in the face. "Nice folks. Aggressively normal. They remind me of those little fuzzy animal toys at the craft store. You know, Cottage Critters? The ones that come with staging scenes like bakeries and shit? Not that I go to craft stores or anything, I mean, not usually, but Plague dragged me in there because he wanted some fabric to make a more secure type of mask for him and Wraith and⁠—"

"Is there a question in there somewhere?" I ask.

"Just making conversation, man."

"Don't."

I catch Plague's hand moving in the reflection of the window. He reaches over and pinches the side of Whiskey's stomach. Hard, judging by the way Whiskey jolts and swats at his hand.

"OW! WHAT THE FUCK, BRO?"

"Stop bellowing," Plague hisses. "You'll get us kicked off the plane."

"In the fucking AIR?!"

I shift slightly, turning my head just enough to see them better. The Wi-Fi hasn't worked once so far, and neither has the screen on the back of the seat in front of me, but this is better than any in-flight entertainment.

Watching these two dance around whatever the fuck is actually happening between them.

Plague's light eyes meet mine for a split second before he looks away, jaw tight. He knows I'm watching. Knows I'm recording every detail of every interaction for future use.

Whiskey, on the other hand, seems blissfully unaware that he's broadcasting his feelings louder than a fucking megaphone.

I pull out my phone, attempting once again to connect to the plane's Wi-Fi. The little loading circle spins.

And spins.

And spins some more.

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath.

Plague is also staring at his phone. His elegant fingers tap against the screen with clear agitation.

"Wi-Fi still down?" Whiskey asks, taking a sip of his drink.