Page 108 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

The current carnage on the screen is my suffering mate.

I shoulder through a group of shell-shocked fans, ignoring someone yelling at me for shoving past them.

Valek is already there, leaning against the wall like he didn't just systematically dismantle another player on national television. His bone-white hair is disheveled from the game, a few strands falling across his forehead, but his expression is serene.

Like destroying Wade Kelly's knee was just another item on his to-do list.

"You came," he says, pleasantly, for some reason.

"You're fucking insane," I counter, already moving. "Let's go."

He pushes off the wall and falls into step beside me, his longer stride eating up the distance. I have to practically jog to keep up, my sneakers slapping against the concrete floor.

"Why are you helping me?" The question comes out breathless, half from exertion and half from the adrenaline still screaming through my veins. "I'm supposed to be hiding. If someone sees me down here⁠—"

"That's why we didn't ask our dear leader." Valek grins at me over his shoulder. "Better to ask forgiveness than permission, after all, yes?"

The tunnel twists and turns, familiar landmarks flashing past. The vending machine where Wraith first found me. The shower room where I nearly took Valek's head off with a fire extinguisher. The equipment storage closet where, just hours ago, I held my mate through a panic attack.

I'm going to be sick.

We round the final corner, and Valek pushes open the locker room door.

The first thing I notice is the smell of blood, and the second is the sound of loud, anxious voices overlapping and equipment clattering. The Coach is having a meltdown somewhere, but I don't see him.

The third thing I notice is Thane's face changing when he sees me.

"What the fuck?" He's on his feet instantly. "Ivy, you shouldn't be down here. It isn't safe⁠—"

"Relax, Captain." Valek sounds utterly unbothered, waving him off. "Wade is busy."

Whiskey snorts from somewhere to my left. "Yeah, busy getting a fuckin' catheter shoved up every hole."

Plague's voice cuts in from across the room. "They don't catheterize⁠—"

"Let me fuckin' dream, man!"

Any other time, I might laugh.

But all I care about right now is Wraith.

He's sitting on a bench against the far wall, hunched forward, shoulders drawn up, head bowed.

His hands are covering his face.

Shielding. Hiding. Even now.

Blood seeps between his fingers, dripping onto the floor between his skates. The trainers hover nearby, medical kits in hand, but they're keeping their distance, shooting nervous glances at each other like they're drawing straws to see who has to approach first.

I'm going to him before anyone can object, planting my hands on his shoulders and climbing into his lap. I settle against him, straddling his waist and wrapping my arms around his neck, fingers tangling in the back of his blood-matted hair.

"I'm here," I whisper against his ear. "It's okay."

For a long moment, he doesn't react at all.

And then his hands are dropping from his face and his arms are flying around me, crushing me against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, his sharp teeth pressing against my skin because he's too far gone right now to think to be gentle.

A purr starts in my chest, muffled because I can barely breathe. I focus on intensifying it, rumbling against him to soothe him. His grip loosens just enough for me to take in a full breath again.