Page 179 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

We should probably fix that.

Considering that Valek is... downstairs.

In Plague's room.

Integrating.

My brain tries to process the concept of Valek as pack and mostly comes up with static. He's new. Unfamiliar. An alpha who my first interaction with was a vicious fight because he was prowling around in my fucking tunnels and I was keeping a vulnerable girl safe.

My omega.

But Ivy claimed him.

If Ivy wants him, I do, too.

It's simple.

Everything with Ivy is simple and easy.

Thane's door is shut when we reach it, but I doubt it's locked. He never locks his door, a habit born from years of needing to be accessible, always on call, always ready to be there for whoever needs him at whatever hour they need him.

Ivy reaches for the handle and gives it a slow, experimental turn. The hinges are silent, and I glance at them, noting the sheen of oil.

Of course he oils the fucking hinges.

Thane maintains everything in this house because he believes the world falls apart the second he stops holding it together.

Hence the headache, probably.

The room is dark except for the red digital clock on his nightstand. My brother is sprawled on his back in bed, tangled in sheets, one arm flung across the mattress, the other resting on his abdomen. His shaggy dark hair, long enough now to reach his shoulders, is plastered across his…

Bright…

Blue…

Face?

An instinctive growl rumbles low in my chest, my ferality registering the unfamiliar blue before it sets in that it's just a fucking headache mask and it only sets in because Ivy's hands clamp over my mouth through the scarf.

"Shhhh!" she hisses, biting down on her knuckle so she won't laugh.

Don't, I sign quickly. He will kill us.

She mouths, I'm TRYING!

I wave her forward.

She slips past me into the room, hopping over Thane's shoes. Her bare feet are silent on the carpet. She moves to the foot of the bed, easing herself onto the edge of the mattress so slowly that the springs barely register the addition of her weight.

She perches there on the balls of her feet, clutching her knees. In the red glow of the digital clock, with her long hair curtaining her face and her pale skin and swimming in a borrowed alpha-sized shirt, she looks like a ghost perched at the end of his bed.

A little haunting.

Thane stirs, rolling his head on the pillow. His breathing changes, going shallow, then stuttering as his body registers something different in the room, and he rolls onto his side, but Ivy's perched on the foot of the bed and the sheets have his legs trapped.

I sign from the doorway. What are you doing?

She looks back at me and signs, Waking him up.