Page 100 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

On the ice, Whiskey absolutely levels a Demons defenseman who wasn't even near the puck. The refs somehow miss it. Whiskey grins at the crowd and flexes like he's auditioning for a protein powder commercial.

"Whiskey's insane," someone behind me laughs.

Yeah. He's also mine.

Mine.

That thought still feels new, at least where Whiskey, Plague, and Thane are concerned. But it's there.

Then the play shifts, and Wraith chases a puck into the corner, and⁠—

The sound of the impact cracks through the arena.

Wrath's head snaps back.

I flinch, my hand flying to my mouth to muffle my cry beneath the suffocating fabric of my own gaiter.

On the ice, Wraith staggers. For a terrifying second, he stays bent over, thrashing his head like a wounded bear trying to clear a swarm of bees.

And then the blood falls, dark crimson splashes on the ice.

"Oh my gods," the woman beside me whispers. She sounds horrified, but not in a sympathetic way. It’s the way you sound when you see a car crash. "Look at him."

"Dude's a machine," her boyfriend mutters, zooming in with his phone camera. "Or a zombie. Look, he's not even going to the bench."

"He's feral," his girlfriend corrects him. "Shouldn't let him play at all."

"Get off the ice," I whisper, even though he can't hear me, my fingers twisting in my hoodie. "Please, Wraith. Just get off the ice."

I watch as the trainer rushes out. I watch Thane try to talk sense into him. And I watch Wraith skate away from them all.

"Why is he staying out there?" someone behind me asks loud enough to be heard over the shouting crowd. "He's bleeding all over the ice."

"Because it’s a freak," a guy in a Demons jersey laughs. "It probably likes the taste of blood."

I whirl around in my seat. "Shut the fuck up!"

He stares at me, blinking. "Uh, excuse me?"

"I said shut the fuck up. You don't know anything."

"Whoa, chill out, sweetheart. It's just a game."

It's not a game. Not to me. And definitely not to the alpha on the ice who is currently fighting for air because he promised to win for me.

I turn back to the rink, ignoring the guy's muttered insults. At least these ones are for me.

I need to be down there.

I need to drag Wraith off that ice by force if I have to and clean up the blood and kiss his wounds.

But all I can do is watch.

Wraith skates back to his position, slightly unsteady. He keeps swiping at his mask with his glove, smearing the blood further, trying to clear his airway without exposing his face.

Oh gods, the fabric is slightly torn.

Did his scars split again? He was supposed to get injections in Cedarbrook and didn’t.