Page 121 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

I'm trying to eavesdrop and Plague and Thane's quiet conversation when Thane comes back from locking up, anyway. I don’t catch what they’re saying.

Except “Valek.”

I catch that.

And Thane isn’t smooth enough when it comes to being sneaky—actually, he isn’t smooth period, although he seems to think he is, which is cute—to keep himself from looking directly at me when he says the name.

Plague shoots him a “be less obvious” glare, which is even more obvious.

I bite my lip so I don’t laugh. Whiskey may be the pack’s biggest himbo, but Thane isn’t far behind him.

Wraith is still on the couch, watching me through half-lidded eyes. He hasn't moved since I took off his shirt, but his gaze follows me around the room. Every time I pass close to him, his hand twitches like he wants to reach out but doesn't have the energy.

"Almost done," I tell him softly, brushing my fingers against his arm. "Then you can sleep."

He responds with an affirmative rumble.

I finish the nest with a final flourish. Pillows arranged, blankets layered, enough space for five alphas and one omega if everyone gets creative with their limbs.

It's not pretty, or Insta-worthy.

But it's mine, and it's safe, and right now that's all that matters.

"Okay." I straighten up. "Wraith, can you make it to the floor?"

He looks from me to the floor near the couch, then slides unceremoniously off it, landing on his side with a muffled grunt.

"That works," I murmur, settling in next to him and lifting his head onto my lap. He’s dead weight now and I almost pop my shoulders out of their joints lifting even a little bit of him. "Just rest."

His hand finds mine. Stay, he signs with his other hand, tired blue eyes sliding up to mine.

“I'm not going anywhere,” I promise him.

Wraith’s eyes search my face for a long moment, as if he’s still afraid I will, deep down.

I’m sure we’re in a one-step-forward, one-million-steps-back situation when it comes to his self-loathing. This was already a day from hell for him, and it culminated in him going feral and savaging Wade.

He already sees himself as a monster. This is all going to reinforce that in his mind.

I know it is.

I bend down and press a kiss to his bandaged cheek to remind him I disagree. Strongly.

“You were my hero today,” I whisper. “You know that, right?”

Disbelief flickers in his eyes. But he’s too worn out to argue this time. He zones out, not really sleeping, but not with it, either.

Whiskey claims the space on Wraith's other side, sprawling dramatically across the blankets with his arms spread wide. Okay, with Whiskey stretching out across the nest, maybe it isn’t big enough for five alphas after all.

"This is nice," he announces to no one in particular. "We should do sleepovers more often. I'll bring snacks next time. Maybe a projector. We could watch movies on an even bigger screen⁠—"

"Whiskey," Plague interrupts flatly. “We’re not making a new tradition out of sleeping on the floor.”

But he joins us.

“This is a democracy. And if we vote, you’ll be outnumbered,” Whiskey retorts, rolling over to face him and crushing his leg in the process.

Plague snarls in pain.