Page 139 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

And I hear a muffled thump followed by a whispered "FUUUUCK" that isn't whispered at all.

I know that voice anywhere.

Another thump, this one at the front door.

I extract myself carefully from Wraith's arm. He stirs, his hand twitching against the blanket where my hip was, but he doesn't wake up. I tuck a pillow into the space I left and his arm curls around it automatically with a low growl.

Whew.

My bare feet hit the cold floor and I pad toward the hallway, pulling Whiskey's flannel I ended up in again tighter around myself.

The front door pops open.

Whiskey comes through first, and he is a disaster. Mulch in his hair. Dirt smeared across his forearms. His brown leather coat—the one that's been repaired so many times it should qualify for a military decoration—is shredded and flapping open to reveal a predictable red plaid flannel underneath.

Valek slips in behind him like a shadow.

Comparatively pristine, of course. His hair is slightly disheveled, but he's otherwise untouched.

"Hi," I whisper from the hallway entrance.

Whiskey startles so hard he bangs his elbow on the door frame. "FUCK! Ivy? What are you doing up?"

"You're kind of loud," I say.

Valek's mouth twitches.

"I was being quiet," Whiskey protests at full volume.

"You were not," Valek tells him.

"Bro, I was whispering."

"I am not your bro," Valek says in a flat tone.

Whiskey groans, kicking his boots off. One of them hits the wall with a thud that could wake the dead.

I wince.

"I need a shower," he announces, plucking a leaf from his hair and flicking it onto the floor. "I'm covered in garden shit."

I look between them. Whiskey, destroyed. Valek, suspiciously composed. Both of them sneaking in at—I crane my neck to glance at the microwave clock through the kitchen entryway—the ass crack of dawn.

Oh yeah.

I'm suspicious as fuck.

"What were you two doing?" I ask innocently.

"Fucking around," Whiskey says without missing a beat.

Valek's face twists. "Not in your wildest dreams."

Whiskey snorts and waves him off, already lumbering toward the bathroom. "Chill, bro. It's a figure of speech."

He shuts the bathroom door hard enough to rattle the picture frames on the wall.

The shower kicks on. Through the walls, I can hear Whiskey singing Eye of the Tiger, perfectly on-key.