Page 120 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Fair enough.

Whiskey appears in the doorway again, wearing nothing but sweatpants that hang low on his hips, and he's carrying a first aid kit.

"Brought the good stuff," he announces, then stops short when he sees Wraith. "Damn, big guy. You look like shit."

Wraith's middle finger rises with impressive coordination for someone who couldn't sit up thirty seconds ago.

Whiskey grins. "There he is. Thought we lost you for a minute."

He crosses to the couch and crouches beside it, his usual manic energy dialed down. His hand hovers over Wraith's shoulder before making contact.

"You good?" Whiskey asks quietly. "For real?"

Wraith's eyes meet his. Something passes between them that I can't quite read.

Will be, Wraith signs finally.

Whiskey nods. "Good. Because I was really hoping I wouldn't have to drag your giant ass up to the loft tonight. My shoulder's still fucked from Canada."

"About that," I say. "Maybe we should just... stay down here?”

The room goes quiet.

Thane stops his pacing near the window. Plague's thumb freezes mid-scroll. Whiskey's eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline.

Wraith's eyes find mine, and he tilts his head with a confused rumble.

"I mean," I continue, suddenly aware of how many alphas are staring at me, "I don't think Wraith can make it up the fire escape right now anyway."

More silence.

But Valek can reach you down here, they’re all thinking.

I can tell. It’s written all over their faces.

I don’t blame them. I just dropped a Valek-shaped bomb on them, what, an hour ago? Maybe even less. They have no idea if Valek really is my scent match or not.

After that kiss, I’m pretty damn sure he is.

Thane sighs, long and hard, not bothering to hide his reluctance. "Yeah. Okay."

"Dibs on the good pillows," Whiskey announces immediately, already moving toward the hall closet.

Plague mutters something under his breath that sounds like "the floor is unsanitary and the good pillows will be fucking ruined" but doesn't try to stop Whiskey from dumping everything on the floor.

"I'll get blankets," I say. "Whiskey, you can’t have all the pillows. Plague, stop looking at Whiskey like you’re going to kill him. Thane…" I glance back at him. "Maybe make sure all the doors are locked? It feels kind of exposed down here, what with the windows and all."

He's already doing it.

This is good. This is normal. This is me doing what I'm good at. Taking care of people, building something safe out of chaos, making a nest out of nothing.

The second hall closet yields a surprising bounty. Blankets I didn't know existed, even more pillows, and a comforter that's slightly musty. I haul it all out, arms full, and nearly collide with Whiskey coming from the other direction.

The living room floor has plenty of room once we push the coffee table aside. I start laying out blankets, overlapping them to create a padded surface and adding pillows around the edges. Whiskey dumps his own haul nearby, including three gigantic floppy stuffed sharks.

"They're from IKEA," he says when he catches me staring at them, as if that makes it make sense.

I don't ask.