Page 127 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"Wraith?" she whispers sleepily, rolling toward me, burrowing closer. Her fingers curl against the scarred skin of my chest and she holds onto me, nuzzling into my throat.

I don't check my bandages again.

Chapter 25

Ivy

I'm sitting in Wraith's lap at the kitchen table because he won't let go of me, and I don't want him to.

His chin rests on my shoulder, his massive arms circled around my waist, and his breathing is slow and soft against my neck. He hasn't signed anything since we migrated from the nest to the kitchen twenty minutes ago.

Hasn't eaten, of course. Hasn't moved at all except to tighten his grip a fraction when I shifted to reach my coffee.

He's here. That's what matters.

Just… on low-power mode.

He's watching Valek, though. The other alpha is at the far end of the table with a mug of tea.

He's reading on his phone, his platinum hair still damp from his shower and pushed back from his forehead. The wound on his temple from where I bludgeoned him with a fire extinguisher is just a pale thin scar now.

He hasn't said a word to anyone.

Even though he seems to only drink tea, and a lot of fucking tea, I'm actually pretty sure he's the one who made the coffee because Plague was showering when the coffee materialized. And I don't think Thane or Whiskey would dare touch Plague's many private stashes of fancy imports. I hear the last time Whiskey touched the bag, Plague dumped the whole thing in the trash because he asked Whiskey if he'd washed his hands, and Whiskey hesitated.

Valek, though?

Yeah. He would totally touch Plague's stash.

Surprisingly, Plague hasn't commented on it beyond staring for a solid minute at the coffee maker and then moving on with a sigh to arrange ingredients for breakfast.

Plague's cute all… domestic. His long dark hair is still wet, pulled back in a low tail at the nape of his neck, and he's wearing a black apron that matches his disposable mask. He cooks like he comes from a chef background and not medical-school-then-hockey.

We're having French toast with fresh berries and cut fruit this morning, and I'm fucking stoked. After yesterday, I definitely need it. Even Wraith seems mildly interested. With his chin resting on my shoulder, from this angle, I see his eyes flicking to the stove once in a while through his half-lidded dark lashes.

"Sooo," Whiskey starts, adding copious amounts of brown sugar to his coffee. He's shirtless again. I'm starting to think he's allergic to shirts. "On a scale of one to ten, how fucked are we?"

Nobody answers.

"Cool. Cool cool cool." He takes a long sip. "Eleven. Got it."

I nudge Thane's forearm with my fingers. He's sitting across from Wraith and me, already on his second mug of coffee and staring off into space. His eyes refocus when they find mine.

"Did you eat when you got up?" I ask him.

"Not hungry."

"Wasn't what I asked," I say, smiling.

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Okay. No."

"Then have some French toast with us. Captain's orders." I point at him with my coffee mug.

He raises an eyebrow and takes a sip from his coffee. "You're not the captain."

"I outrank you. Omega privilege."

Thane snorts.