Page 128 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

I'll take that as a win.

Plague starts loading the table with plates of French toast, golden brown, dusted perfectly with powdered sugar over a layer of fruit. Plates of buttery scrambled eggs follow.

One of the plates has a glass dome over it to trap the heat. He sets this one beside Wraith.

So he can have it later, I guess.

Wraith glances at the plate, but he doesn't move, even though he must be fucking starving.

"Want to go upstairs?" I whisper to him.

He shakes his head and nuzzles into my neck.

Whiskey hops off his stool and drops into the chair next to Wraith with his food. Plague gave him extra, enough to feed an army of alphas, and Whiskey's inhaling it like said army might actually come and try to take it from him.

"Hey. Wraith." Whiskey's voice is muffled by French toast. "You wanna hear something fucked up?"

Wraith's eyes lift to Whiskey.

"The fans are already making edits of Valek destroying Wade set to that Rasputin song. The ass-kicking and stomping matches the beat perfectly. So do the crunches."

Wraith blows a puff of air through his nose. It isn't his usual huff, but I'll take it.

From the far end of the table, Valek's mouth curves.

"PR's going to hate that, aren't they?" I sigh.

Whiskey grimaces, scooting over to make room for Plague as he sits down to eat. "Probably."

The kitchen settles into a form of normalcy. We're way too banged up and shell-shocked for real normalcy, but it's close. The familiar sounds of forks scraping plates, coffee pouring, Whiskey yammering with his mouth full while Plague sneaks extra food onto his plate. The solid warmth of Wraith at my back.

My eyes drift to the end of the table.

Valek's watching me.

Not in the way Wraith watches me, like he'll die if he looks away from me. Valek's attention is more peripheral, glances that last too long before his eyes return to his phone. The kind of look that says I'm not looking at you while his body is angled in my direction.

I watch him, too, waiting for him to look away.

Our eyes catch. He looks away first.

I pick up my coffee and try to focus on that instead of the fluttering of my heart.

One by one, the kitchen empties. Thane excuses himself to shower, squeezing my shoulder as he passes. Plague clears the dishes except for Wraith's covered plate, the glass dome steamy with trapped heat. Whiskey steals the leftovers before they can make it to the fridge and Plague chases him, bitching him out.

Valek stands, rinses his mug, and sets it upside-down on the rack on the counter. When he passes behind me on his way out, he doesn't say anything, but he's close enough I feel the displaced air against my arm, and I catch his cold scent.

Then he's gone, and it's just me and Wraith.

I shift in his lap, turning sideways so I can face him. His arms loosen enough to let me move, but not enough to let go. His blue eyes find mine, and gods, he looks so tired.

"Hey," I say softly. "Let me look at you."

He holds still with a reluctant rumble while I examine the bandages Plague applied last night. The gauze is holding, though there's a spot near his jaw where dried blood has seeped through. I peel the edge back to check the stitches beneath, slowing down when he flinches.

"These look good," I tell him, gently smoothing the tape back into place. "Plague did a great job."

Wraith watches me with those exhausted blue eyes.