Page 135 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

THUMP.

Louder this time.

I ignore it. Must be a raccoon.

"Only you wouldn't look nearly as impressive, what with the… general state of your teeth after I⁠—"

The screeching sound of metal dragging across glass cuts through my perfectly prepared monologue like a chainsaw through a violin concerto.

I pause.

Turn my head.

The small hospital window is occupied by a silhouette the approximate size and shape of a bull.

The screeching sound is a belt buckle against glass.

Whiskey is wedged halfway through the gap, his massive shoulders jammed against the frame, one arm through, one arm pinned behind him. He grins at me like the idiot he is.

I fucking loathe this alpha.

"Hey," he wheezes. "Fancy seein' you here."

I stare at him, at a loss for words, the knife still in my hand.

Wade makes a new sound. The sound a balloon makes when you sit on it.

"One moment," I tell Wade with a flat smile.

The window frame groans. Whiskey grunts, twists his shoulders, and shoves. His body lurches through the gap with the grace of a boulder rolling downhill. He clears the frame, catches his belt on the latch, hangs there for one spectacular second, and then gravity takes over.

He lands on a supply cart.

The cart rockets across the linoleum. Folded towels explodes into the air. I catch a wheel on my shoe just before it rams into the door as Whiskey pops up with both arms spread wide.

"Nailed it!"

Wade makes the deflating sound again.

I tap the cart away with my shoe and stare at Whiskey. "I thought I destroyed that coat in Canada," I say flatly.

"Yeah, well, Martha's the best tailor in town and I'm her favorite customer. She says so herself, every time. She worked some extra magic. So."

He kicks a bedpan off his foot with a noisy clatter and looks around the room, taking in Wade's broken body, and me sitting in the visitor's chair with a knife.

His grin doesn't falter. "You know, I was gonna do the whole threatening monologue thing, too. Had it all planned out in the shower."

"You planned a threatening monologue in the shower."

"Bro, where else do you plan monologues?"

I don't have an answer for that.

Rolling my eyes, I pocket my knife and get up to kick the rubber doorstop into the bottom of the door. If the staff somehow didn't hear the crash, surely they heard him kick a fucking bedpan.

He'd better make this quick.

Whiskey grabs a plastic chair from the corner, drags it across the floor with an even louder screech, and drops it beside mine. He sits down, props his elbows on his knees, and leans forward to fix Wade with a stare that is, for once, completely devoid of humor.