Page 119 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Plague sits in the armchair, phone in hand, scrolling through something he's clearly not reading.

His eyes are on me.

I gulp.

Wraith's arm shifts. His blue eyes crack open above the bandages, finding me immediately. Okay? he manages to sign. Even that one small movement seems to sap what little energy he has left.

"Fine." The word comes out too fast. "I’m fine. We just talked."

Nobody looks convinced. Plague's eyebrow arches and Whiskey's head pokes out from the kitchen doorway, a protein granola bar hanging out of his mouth like a cigar.

"Talked," he repeats flatly. "For ten minutes. Alone. In his room."

"Five minutes," I correct. "And yes. Talked."

Wraith scents the air, his brow furrowing as he tries to parse what he's picking up.

I cross the room to him before anyone can ask more questions. "Hey," I say softly, settling on the edge of the couch near his hip. "How are you feeling?"

L-I-K-E… S-H-I-T, he fingerspells, the movement sluggish. T-I-R-E-D.

"I know," I murmur. "And… you don't need to fingerspell. I'm getting better. Although I might not know the sign for shit."

He blows a puff of air through his nose. Ask W-H-I-S-K-E-Y.

I laugh a little at that, reaching out to touch his hair, then hesitate. "Can I?"

He gives a small nod, blinking. Of course.

My fingers sink into the dark strands, still tacky with dried blood in places. He lets out a low, content rumble and his eyes flutter shut.

"You need to get out of these clothes," I tell him. "You're covered in blood."

Another sluggish nod. But he doesn't move.

"Wraith."

Nothing.

"Can you sit up for me?"

His eyes open again. He stares at me for a long moment, then makes a visible effort to push himself upright. His arms shake. His jaw clenches. He gets about halfway before he sags back down with a frustrated growl.

"Okay. Um. We'll do this the hard way."

I grab the hem of his bloodied jersey and start working it up his torso. He lifts his arms, letting me maneuver the material over his head, his movements as cooperative as a half-conscious bear.

The undershirt comes next. More blood here, soaked through in patches. Some of it his, some of it Wade's. The sight of it makes my stomach twist.

"Lift."

He lifts.

The shirt comes off and he slumps against the couch cushions, his massive chest rising and falling with exhausted breaths and his huge hands resting in his lap. The scars webbing down his throat and chest look softer in the warm lamplight.

"Pants?" I ask.

Leave them, he signs. Too tired.