Page 143 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"They can look it up, then."

But he changes it.

Plague's statement is… well, expected. Medical terminology, timelines down to the second because of course he was watching the clock, factual observations stripped of emotion. Until one line near the end, where he refers to me as his beloved mate.

Not just mate.

Beloved.

And this alpha, who puts so much thought into every word and action, types it with no hesitation.

I turn so red I can feel the heat. I have to look down at my phone so nobody sees my expression.

Whiskey's statement is a disaster.

Three drafts. The first reads like he's the one with a concussion instead of Valek. The second is somehow worse because he tried to sound professional and Whiskey's version of "professional" is using words like herefore and thusly.

The third Plague basically rewrites from scratch while Whiskey hovers behind him, protesting every edit.

"You can't say Wade was being a little bitch."

"But he was."

The stubbornness survives every edit. So does the opening line, which Whiskey refuses to add his legal name to, or change it from Yo, Whiskey here. The core of Whiskey's statement—the raw, bull-headed refusal to apologize for protecting his pack—stays intact no matter how many times Plague smooths the edges. It reads like a man who'd do it all again in a heartbeat and dares anyone to tell him he's wrong.

Wraith's turn.

He pulls the lined paper toward him, picks up a pen, and writes. It's one continuous flow of ink across the page. I've never seen him write like this.

His handwriting is terrible.

The letters lean in different directions. His Rs look like Ds. His Ns could pass for Cs or Us depending on the light. One word could either be instinct or insect, or it might be an entirely new word he invented through sheer force of bad penmanship.

I try not to giggle because he would absolutely misunderstand and get embarrassed. He still doesn't get why I find him adorable.

He finishes, sets the pen down, and slides the paper to the center of the table.

Silence.

Whiskey picks it up. Squints. Rotates it ninety degrees. Squints harder.

"Bro," he says slowly. "Does this say the blood on the dick fucked with your head?"

Wraith's head tilts.

"Right here." Whiskey points. "After on the—is that on the dick?"

R-I-N-K, Wraith fingerspells flatly.

"That is NOT what that says. The R looks like a D. The N looks like—Plague, come look at this. Tell me that doesn't say dick."

Plague leans over and studies the word, his eyes narrowing.

"It says rink," he confirms.

"LOOK at the R!"

"It's a poorly formed R. Blood on the dick doesn't even make sense, Whiskey."