Page 189 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"Let's eat," Valek announces abruptly, already arranging the plates to avoid finishing the conversation. "Wraith, no meat on yours." He points out a separate baconless plate on the table. "Extra eggs, to make up for the protein."

Wraith stares at him in surprise. Thank you, he signs, hesitantly.

Valek inclines his head. "You're welcome."

Fighting back an even wider grin, I help Valek finish setting the table while the chaos continues to unfold in the kitchen. Whiskey arguing with Plague about how the ice pack is going to give him fucking frostbite, bro. Wraith hovering at my side, my shadow as always, helping by reaching for the stuff that's too high up in the cupboards for me to grab without a fucking ladder. Thane returning with his coffee mug and a long-suffering expression, his hair still a mess.

I reach up and push a strand of Thane's hair out of his face without thinking about it.

He goes completely still.

So does everyone else.

"What?" I look around. "He had hair in his eyes."

Whiskey mouths oh my god at Plague.

Thane clears his throat. "Thanks."

His ears are red.

My phone's going off in my pocket, but I ignore it. It's probably more messages from Eliza about today's coverage, about the league review, about the statements that will define whether half my pack gets to keep playing the only thing that's ever kept them sane. She's been texting the pack instead of emailing, since Whiskey apparently can't be trusted to not CC random people in emails.

And Wade is in the hospital not far from here, thoroughly destroyed, but alive and recovering. Close enough to make my skin crawl if I let it.

But I don't. I don't let myself even think about it.

Because I'm spending a warm, sunny morning in a pack house full of my alphas. Five of them now, even if one's still figuring out how to belong.

Five alphas who would burn the world down for me.

Who already kind of have.

I've never felt so fucking untouchable in my life.

Chapter 39

Thane

My parents' house never changes.

The same family photos march up the staircase wall in the same brass frames. The same lemon oil scent clinging to the bannister. All the furniture is exactly where it was the last time I left, because they never change shit around in here.

I take a second to look at the pictures anyway.

Me at eight with a goalie mask bigger than my torso, me and Wraith as teenagers in the backyard rink photo that thousands of strangers are currently dissecting online, my parents on their anniversary cruise looking sunburned and happy and normal.

Normal.

That's me.

Fucking thanks, Valek.

But I don't have time to think about that right now. Over the past few days, I've defended my pack and my brother to the league, to PR, to a room full of journalists with recorders shoved at my face.

Somehow, the talk with my parents is the one I've been dreading most.

"Sit down, Thane," my father says from his armchair. I can tell from his tone I'm not going to have to fill him in on anything. And why would I? It's plastered all over every tabloid and news outlet for the whole world to see.