Page 133 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Wraith blinks at him.

Eliza turns the deepest shade of red yet. "Yes. Well. Anyway," she says, straightening and pushing her glasses up her nose, "we'll need individual statements from each of you. Coordinated, on-message. Wraith's can be written rather than verbal, obviously. Ivy, we'll need your account of the abuse on the record. Only what you're comfortable sharing, of course, but the more detail you provide, the stronger the defense." She glances at Valek. "And Valek, you'll need to publicly confirm the scent match. You're new. It's going to be a harder sell than Wraith, believe it or not."

Eliza says that apologetically, but the believe it or not still takes everything I have to not level a soul-peeling glare at her.

Somehow, I keep my face neutral. Or… neutral enough. I've always been told I have a serious case of RBF even when I'm in a great mood and having the time of my life.

"Fine," Valek says in a flat tone.

He didn't even argue.

I almost fall off the loveseat.

Eliza stands, signaling the end of the meeting. Daphne and Ray close their tablets and rise in sync. Kind of creepy. Actually, they look like they might be siblings.

"One more thing." Eliza pauses at the doorway, turning back to face us. "The story is going to be everywhere by end of day. I need those statements by five PM tomorrow." She pins Thane with a look. "Captain. Keep your pack in line."

"Always do," he says, sounding as exhausted as I know he is.

The front door shuts behind them and Thane makes sure it's locked.

Nobody else moves.

The unnecessary candle sputters on the coffee table.

"Well," Whiskey says, slapping his hands down once on the knees of his red flannels. "That was fun. Let's never do it again."

And for once, nobody argues with him.

Chapter 27

Valek

The hospital corridors are nearly silent at the witching hour.

It's a skeleton crew, and none of the skeletons look twice at me. Not even the lone security officer I passed in his booth by the waiting room, playing a loud Match-3 game on his phone.

People see what they expect to see. A tall alpha in a crisp dress shirt and a flu mask walking with purpose through a hospital doesn't read as psychopath here to terrorize a patient.

Perception is a beautiful thing.

The flu mask is Plague's, of course. Found it in the kitchen junk drawer, still sealed in plastic, and pocketed it on my way out the door while the rest of the pack was unconscious in a puppy pile in their nest.

Most of them, anyway. Whiskey was off… doing whatever it is Whiskey does in the middle of the night. Crafting war crimes with nachos and whichever questionable ingredients he can find in the fridge, I'm sure.

Although I must admit honey on nachos does, as he puts it, "slap."

Plague will surely notice the mask is missing. But that's a problem for future Valek, and future Valek has proven remarkably adept at not giving a shit about consequences when it comes to matters regarding the safety of a certain omega.

I've already memorized the layout. Checked the floor plan on the hospital's website and cross-referenced it with the news reports and leaks about Wade's admission. Second floor, east wing, Room 288.

A private room, of course, the door slightly ajar.

I push it open and step inside.

Wade Kelly looks like the pathetic alpha he is in a hospital bed, surrounded by beeping machines and IV tubing. His shoulder is packed in layers of gauze so thick his entire arm is immobilized, and so is his knee. Even his head is wrapped in gauze.

Alphas heal quickly, but Wraith did a number on him.