Page 129 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"Are you okay?" I ask softly.

His hands rise slowly, like they weigh a thousand pounds each. Trying.

"I know."

I lean forward and press my lips to the jagged scar that cuts through his eyebrow.

Thane's phone vibrates on the table.

Not a single buzz, either. A whole bunch of them, rapid-fire.

"Hey? Uh, Thane?" I call.

I hear Thane's footsteps in the hallway—fast, still-damp-from-the-shower fast—and he appears in the kitchen doorway with a towel slung over his shoulders and his shaggy hair dripping onto the collar of a clean t-shirt.

He grabs the phone and groans, throwing his head back.

"What?" I ask.

"Management's sending PR to the house. Today. In an hour."

Oh, fuck.

Chapter 26

Ivy

The hour passes in five minutes.

Okay, not really. But it feels like five minutes, because the moment Thane says "PR," the pack house transforms from post-apocalyptic nest camp into a frantic scramble that would be hilarious if I wasn't so fucking terrified.

Whiskey yanks on a shirt, backward. Plague sweeps through the living room, dismantling our nest, folding blankets and stacking pillows. Thane paces the kitchen with his phone pressed to his ear, fighting to negotiate more time and getting absolutely nowhere.

Valek hasn't reappeared, and Wraith hasn't moved from beneath me.

"Hey," I say softly, cupping his bandaged jaw. "We need to get you cleaned up."

His huge shoulders lift and then sink with a heavy sigh, but he nods.

I follow him to the bathroom and sit on the counter on my phone while he showers because I don't want him to be alone.

The water runs forever.

I just sit there doomscrolling, my back against the wall. At some point I realize I've been staring at the same post for four minutes without reading a single word.

When he gets out and towels off, careful not to get his dripping hair on his bandages, I glance up and have to bite back a holy shit at the glistening muscles of his back flexing with the movements, the water droplets tracking down between his massive shoulder blades.

My mate is fucking glorious, even as tired as he is.

He catches me staring and stares back warily at me over his shoulder.

"You look good," I say, grinning.

His eyes go flat with a look that clearly communicates doubt, but he doesn't argue with me this time. He pulls new clothes on and offers his hand to help me down from the counter. I stretch up first to kiss the tip of his nose, flinging my arms around his neck.

The worry in his eyes softens.

The living room is unrecognizable by the time we get downstairs.