Page 206 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

The movie's actually pretty fun. Low budget, laughably bad CGI, and a soundtrack that sounds like it was recorded in someone's garage. Every time a zombie lurches out of a cornfield, half the cars in the lot honk their horns and someone in the row ahead of us throws popcorn at their windshield.

It really is perfect.

"Whiskey would make short work of these zombies," I say, pointing at the screen with a sour straw as the heroes shoot like they're blindfolded. "The movie would last all of five minutes."

Thane snorts. "He does have a shotgun, just in case."

"No fucking way."

His laugh vibrates through my whole body. "Well, it's empty. I don't know if Whiskey knows it's empty, but it is. Plague took the slugs out after the Milwaukee incident."

"The what?"

"I'll tell you later. Much later. When we're old and it's funny."

I tip my head back against his shoulder and grin up at him, and he bends his head down to nuzzle my face. His shaggy dark hair brushes my forehead, soft and smelling like woody shampoo.

The sour straw in my hand is forgotten.

So is the movie.

Because Thane is looking down at me with those dark, steady eyes, his hands on my lap. and the way the blue light from the projector lights his strong features makes him look regal yet gentle, like a lion.

He swallows. The motion travels down the thick column of his throat and I track it with interest that has nothing to do with zombies.

"You're staring," he murmurs.

"I'm allowed." I reach up and trace my finger along his jawline. His stubble rasps against my fingertip. "You're really fucking hot, you know that?"

His expression shifts into something between flattered and bewildered. "I'm… what?"

"Hot. Attractive. Devastatingly handsome in this suit." I tug at his lapel, the one he's been tugging at all night. "Especially since this doesn't quite fit anymore."

He groans and drops his head back against the headrest. "You noticed? It fit three months ago."

"Stress eating?"

"Stress everything. Stress eating, stress lifting, stress not sleeping." He drags a hand down his face. "I've been holding this pack together with my bare hands and apparently my body decided to hold onto every carb in existence while I did it. It thinks we're in danger. Gotta prepare for a fucking famine, apparently. I'll cut when I get a chance to⁠—"

I twist in his lap to face him properly, my knees bracketing his hips, and he stops talking. His hands land on my waist again, instinctive, steadying me. His thighs beneath me are enormous and straddling him stretches my legs wide.

He's a fucking fortress.

I never want to leave this lap.

"I like it." I slide my hands down his broad ribs. His heart thuds like crazy beneath my palms. "You feel sturdy. Safe. Like you could pick me up and carry me through a wall. Maybe even a few walls."

His pupils are blown wide, the dark nearly swallowing the brown entirely. His fingers flex on my waist. "You… do? I mean, I know you like it on Whiskey, but it works for his… rabid teddy bear thing he has going on. He called me a thicc king the other day. With two c's. In text. With a fucking crown emoji."

I laugh so hard I nearly slide off his lap and have to grip his shoulders to stay upright. The word thicc coming out of Thane Belmont's mouth in that deadpan baritone is the funniest shit I've heard since Whiskey tried to pronounce croissant and Plague disowned him for six hours.

Thane's fighting a smile and losing badly, the corners pulling up despite the furrow between his brows that says he's genuinely been worrying about this.

This beautiful, impossible alpha.

I get a grip and cup his face in both hands, his dark eyes locking on mine. "You are perfect," I tell him sincerely, slowly, making sure he absorbs every word.

He swallows hard.