Page 153 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"Wraith Belmont is my brother. I trust him with my pack, and I trust him with our mate. Anyone who believes a feral alpha cannot be trusted has not met my brother."

He takes a breath.

"He asked me to read his statement for him."

Thane pulls a piece of paper from his breast pocket. He unfolds it carefully, smoothing the creases flat with his thumbs.

"'My name is Wraith Belmont, but I was born Mikhail. I changed my name because Mikhail belongs to a boy who does not exist anymore.'"

The cameras click, a continuous shutter storm.

Wait… what?

Mikhail.

His name is Mikhail.

I never expected to know the name he was given when he was born, never let myself wonder, because Wraith was always just Wraith to me, the way the dark is just dark and the ocean is just the ocean. Vast and complete and not requiring further explanation.

I feel him moving to stand behind me, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder.

My throat closes.

Thane keeps reading.

"'My father was from Russia and anglicized his name. He didn't want to do the same for me. He named me after the archangel who threw Lucifer from heaven.'"

Whiskey whips around to stare at Wraith, wide-eyed. "Bro, no fucking way⁠—"

Plague stomps on his shoe.

The shutter clicks are relentless, a strobe effect in my peripheral vision that I block out because the only thing that matters right now is Wraith's words and the alpha standing behind me whose name I just learned for the first time in a room full of strangers.

Mikhail.

Named for the archangel who threw Lucifer from heaven.

Of course he was.

Thane continues.

"'My father died when I was young. My mother remarried. When I was a child, my stepfather poured acid on my face. He is in prison. The court records are public.'"

Thane's voice holds steady on poured acid on my face but I hear the fracture beneath it.

Beside me, Valek is absolutely still.

The journalist in the back row has both hands over her mouth now. The one beside her is writing so fast her pen tears through the paper.

"'My mother never recovered. She believed her son had died and that a demon had taken his place. A wraith. That's the name she gave me, and I kept it. She kept me in the basement. I do not blame her. She is ill. She has always been ill.'"

My eyes burn.

Because I remember sitting in that room with Claire while she abused him. And he just stood there and took it with his hands limp at his sides and his blue eyes steady and sad, because he's been taking it his entire life and he doesn't know how to do anything else.

A tear escapes when I try to blink them back.

"'My vocal cords and lips were destroyed, so I sign and I write. My teeth were sharpened so I could eat without flesh on my lower face. I can't chew normally. I tear, like I tore into Wade Kelly. I did not consent to this. I was too young to refuse. Being a feral alpha probably makes my teeth even sharper. I don't know and it doesn't matter. My face is my face.'"