Page 213 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Even that motion pulls and stings.

Fuck. I'm going to need to go back up to Cedarbrook soon whether my usual doctor's in or not if this keeps up. Can't even wear the fucking scarf the way I want it without the damaged nerves roaring through my entire jaw.

The pain isn't the problem.

It's excruciating, but I can take pain.

The problem is the searing electric pulse that makes my teeth ache and itch, clouding my already messed up brain and bringing the feral beast closer to the surface.

Every second I have a mask on is a second I'm spending fighting not to lose myself to it.

I'm not letting myself think about what will happen if I can't wear anything over my lower face anymore.

Won't leave the fucking house again, I guess.

"You're going to die, Whiskey," Plague says from below us, crossing his arms.

"I'm fine," Whiskey mutters.

I glance down at the wobbling, creaking stepstool Whiskey's balanced on. It's rated for alphas, but it was from BetaMart, and to make matters worse, it was on fucking sale from BetaMart. Even the best shit at BetaMart is liable to fail at the worst possible moment.

But Whiskey loves a deal.

Wonder if he'll still love the deal if it ends with him in the hospital with a stool leg up his ass.

I give a low warning growl.

"Yeah, yeah, plaster, I know," Whiskey grumbles, wedging his hand into the door and prying at it.

I shake my head and growl again.

It almost sounds like no, dumbass.

"I got it, chill," he says, laser focused on the door.

Can't exactly sign to him. I'd have to let go of the door and crush his hand. Supporting the door is completely on me right now.

The advantage of being seven foot three is that I don't need a ladder or a stepstool for ceiling work. The disadvantage of being seven foot three is everything else about existing in a world built for people two feet shorter than me, but I'll take the win today.

Plague pinches the bridge of his nose between his gloved fingers. He brought his own. Latex, from the box in his room. He has a surgical mask, too, and it's already dusted in powder. "The stool, Whiskey. The plastic is turning white where your boots are. The legs are bending."

Whiskey shifts his weight experimentally. "It's fine, bro. I've had this thing for years."

"That's the problem. Plastic doesn't last forever," Plague reminds him. "It gets brittle."

"Your mom's brittle."

"That doesn't even make sense, Whiskey. And my mother is dead."

"Aww fuck man, I didn't know that!"

I pry some more of the wood free while they bicker and a screw fires in Whiskey's direction.

"OW! DUDE!" Whiskey yelps. "That was almost my fuckin' eye! Although… wait, Ivy thinks scars are hot⁠—"

"That's what protection's for," Plague interrupts him.

"That's what she said," Whiskey shoots back, unable to fucking help himself even as he reaches up to steady the door from his side, his big palm flat against the wood. The stepstool wobbles violently and he grabs the doorframe with his other hand, his knuckles white.