Page 193 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

And Wraith has somehow shadowed me from the bathroom to the living room, glued to my back, so warm I can feel him there. I reach up automatically and he leans down to meet me halfway, affectionately nuzzling my hair as I stroke the side of his bandaged jaw.

He doesn’t flinch away this time.

The happy butterflies get started in my chest.

Thane left over an hour ago. Errands, he said, in the strangled voice of the worst liar alive. Our reservation is at seven. If Captain Punctuality is late to his own date, it will actually kill him, and I've been stressing on his behalf ever since.

"Lookin' good, wildcat." Whiskey points a chip at me. "Like, stupid good. Thane's gonna walk into a wall."

Wraith rumbles in agreement into my hair.

Someone knocks on the front door.

Three polite knocks.

The entire room loses its godsdamned mind.

"DOOR!" Whiskey bellows, in case any of us missed it, and rolls off the couch like we're taking mortar fire. Chips everywhere, crunched into the carpet. Plague cries out in horror, either at the door or the chips. "Who the fuck knocks? Plague, who the fuck knocks? I'm not even wearin’ fuckin’ pants!" He gestures frantically to his boxers.

"Stop shouting and put your fucking pants on, then!" Plague snarls.

Wraith's already between me and the door, all seven feet of him, dead silent, hands loose at his sides in that way that means they're about to not be.

Because nobody knocks on this door.

Not even deliveries, which text first. If someone belongs here, they just come in. The last people to show up unexpected were fans.

Which is the only excuse I have for what I do next, and what I do next is bolt for the coat closet.

At the same time as Whiskey.

His massive frame drives me into the winter coats and squashes me against the wall.

The air leaves my lungs in one undignified wheeze.

Here's the thing about being crushed in a coat closet by the alpha version of a bull. There's a survivable version and a fatal version, and the only difference is the padding. Whiskey's midsection saves my life. All the extra fluff I love snuggling with insulating the solid wall of muscle absorbs me instead of turning my ribs into powder.

"Whiskey," I croak, my voice squeezed thin between him and the wall. Thane's leather coat sleeve is draped over my face. At least it smells good. Something hard and pointy—a sword hilt? why do we keep a fucking sword in here?—digs into my hip.

"Shh." Whiskey doesn't move. "I'm protecting you."

"You're crushing me."

He twists, peering down over his own shoulder, and his honey-brown eyes go wide in the light coming through the slats when he finds me wedged behind him with the umbrellas and the fucking sword. "Oh, shit, wildcat! Sorry!"

He shifts maybe two inches, which makes no difference.

I nip instinctively at him.

"Fuck!" he yelps, crushing me more, somehow. Before I can get another mouthful of him, he repositions, planting one massive arm across the doorframe and angling his body so I'm tucked completely into the shadow of him, coats curtaining us both. His cinnamon-y scent wraps around me, and despite everything my pulse comes down a notch. "Why do you bite so much?"

"Feral, remember?" I ask dryly, grinning up at him in the dark.

"Right," he says with a nervous chuckle, scooting further out of bite range.

Through the gap in the closet door, I get a sliver of the living room. Wraith has planted himself directly in front of us, blocking the sight line from the entryway. Guarding the closet. Guarding me. His back fills my entire view.

Almost my entire view.