Page 125 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Valek sits at the table with a glass of water he hasn't touched, his posture deceptively relaxed with one arm draped across the back of the chair, legs stretched out in front of him, ankle crossed over ankle.

"Four," he corrects quietly when my hand twitches toward my face again.

I force my hand back down to the counter.

A snarl builds in my throat. Not because he's wrong. Because he's right, and he's watching, and I didn't even realize he was there, which means I'm more fucked up than I thought.

The towel is in my hands again before I even realize I'm still scrubbing at blood I've already scrubbed at. The scar tissue on my fingers catches on the fabric. Fucking hate the feeling of microfiber against my scars.

Valek watches me destroy my own skin without comment.

The absence of a reaction in his empty eyes is so foreign, it actually makes me pause. I don't know what to do with someone who looks at me and feels nothing.

I'm a feral alpha. An obviously feral alpha. My face is a Rorschach test, and every single person who's ever seen me has shown some kind of reaction.

I slip the bandages down to clean the blood beneath them, my eyes locked on Valek the entire time.

His are flat and calm and empty.

I don't know what to do with that.

I don't like it.

The towel is shredded in my hands now. I've been twisting it without realizing, wringing it so hard that pink water drips onto the counter.

I force my fingers open and let the ruined towel drop.

My hands are shaking. I press them flat against the counter to make them stop.

"Are you alright?" Valek says in that detached tone.

I raise my hands to sign something. I don't even know what. My fingers form shapes and abandon them. Start again. Stop.

I cross my arms over my chest and grip my own shoulders, a self-contained hold that probably looks fucking pathetic, a seven-foot-three alpha hugging himself in a dark kitchen.

Valek is still watching. His eyes are still flat and bored, but his jaw is tight. He's uncomfortable. Somehow, not with my face.

I think it's my distress.

My eyes flick to his forearms. In the glow from the microwave clock, the raised edges of the scars are more visible than before. His sleeves cover most of them, but a few of the round ones—cigarette burns—are visible.

A history written in skin.

Another language I'm fluent in.

I take a deep breath, raising my hands to ask him the question that's been burning in my chest.

W-H-Y… D-I-D… S-H-E… C-L-A-I-M… Y-O-U?

"I don't know," he admits, shrugging one shoulder. "I expected to play out my contract and move on. That's what I do. I arrive somewhere, I perform, I leave before anyone gets close enough to notice I'm empty inside. The Carters…" He stops. His jaw works. "My family gave me everything. Patience. Affection. A name. And I still can't…"

He doesn't finish yet.

I wait, watching.

"Then Ivy happened," he says finally.

He says her name like she's a natural disaster.