Page 172 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

We both exhale and just sit there, breathing together in the soft light, and his face is right there—inches from mine, half-bandaged and half-bare—and I realize for the first time, it's just my mate's face to me now.

There's no spike of adrenaline this time, no butterflies in my stomach from jumpy feral omega nerves.

"You hungry?" I ask, smiling at him.

He shrugs.

Taking that as a yes.

I turn around and scoot back against his chest, settling between his thighs with my back to him, the way we always do when he eats. He reaches over me for his container—vegetable fried rice, extra tofu—and I open my pad thai in my lap.

My phone starts going off before I get through my first spring roll.

I wipe my fingers on my borrowed shirt, even though Plague would scream, and fish it out, expecting one of Whiskey's handmade memes about the pack or a check-in from Thane.

WHISKEY

Hey quick question

Can Plague suck Valek's cock?

I almost choke on my spring roll.

Wraith's hand steadies my shoulder, a questioning rumble vibrating through his chest against my back. He's already positioned like he's going to give me the Heimlich maneuver, which would almost certainly result in my spine shooting out of my mouth if he did it, and I pat his hand quickly to reassure him I'm not in danger of death.

Not from choking, anyway.

"I'm fine," I wheeze, eyes watering, grinning so hard my cheeks hurt. "I'm fine. It's just Whiskey being… hold on."

I read it again to make absolutely sure I didn't hallucinate it.

Nope. That's exactly what it says.

I bite my lower lip and type back without hesitating.

IVY

if you send me a picture of my alphas having fun

I hit send and shove another bite of pad thai in my mouth, squirming a little because my brain is now providing images I did not authorize and my body is having all kinds of feelings about them.

All of them positive.

Wraith peers over my shoulder at the screen. He pauses, processing, then he exhales through his nose hard enough to ruffle my hair.

Plague is going to kill him for asking like that, he signs.

"Oh, absolutely," I say, grinning again.

Another silent laugh. His arms resettle around my waist and he goes back to his fried rice. I steal one of his spring rolls because mine are gone and he lets me, nudging the container closer with his knee.

I keep sneaking glances at my phone.

Nothing yet.

They're either actually doing it, or Plague murdered Whiskey and is hiding the body. Both seem equally plausible.

When my phone lights up again, it's not Whiskey this time.