Page 240 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

I tear the flatbread smaller. "My mom's alive, though. For what that's worth."

"Which isn't much, from your tone."

"She loved Wade." I hear the bitterness creep in and I don't try to hide it. Not from Plague. "When I brought him home, she acted like I'd won the lottery. Star hockey player, gorgeous, rich, charming. She practically planned the wedding herself."

"Did she know?"

"About the abuse?" I shake my head. "I don't think she wanted to. I tried to tell her once, early on, when things were still just… controlling. Not physical yet. She said I was being dramatic. That all alphas are protective. That I should be grateful he cared so much."

Plague's eyes go flat and cold.

"She's going to be a problem," I add, popping a few pomegranate seeds into my mouth. "Now that everything's public. I keep her number blocked on all my devices for a reason."

He nods like this is the most reasonable thing I've ever said.

"But she'll find a way." I push the torn flatbread around my plate. "She always does. Maybe she'll believe me. Or maybe she'll show up crying, telling me I've ruined my life, that this pack is the real danger, that Wade was such a good alpha, that I should go back."

"Over my dead body," Plague says calmly, taking another sip of water.

He isn't being dramatic, either. I can tell from his stillness that wasn't a joke or an exaggeration.

"She'll hate you," I warn him. "All of you, actually. Okay. Maybe not Thane."

"I'll send flowers."

I nearly choke on my pomegranate seeds.

He watches me cough and recover with the faintest smirk, and I realize he timed that on purpose, the bastard.

"What about your father?" he asks, quieter now. "What was he like?"

The question catches me off guard. People ask about the death. Nobody asks about the person.

"He was gentle," I say. "Big guy. Soft voice. He used to read to me every night before bed, even when he'd worked a double shift and could barely keep his eyes open." I smile at the memory. "He did all the voices. Every character. He'd fall asleep mid-sentence sometimes and I'd poke him until he kept going."

"He sounds like a good man," Plague murmurs. "I wish I could have met him."

I swallow and nod.

I don't have anything else to say. But the silence that follows isn't uncomfortable. Not exactly. It's more like we're catching our breath.

The conversation steers toward other things eventually. How I like to read, and how Thane wants to put bookcases in the loft.

Plague lights up at the idea.

We spend the rest of dinner discussing our favorite books. Science and philosophy for him, of course, but he tells me in no uncertain terms he thinks he's seen Whiskey with a few of my favorites, which is beyond hilarious to me and I know exactly what I'm going to bring up later tonight.

When I get marked.

Plague signals the server and takes care of the bill and an absolutely massive takeout order for Whiskey before I can even reach for my own wallet in my bag. He helps me into my coat at the door, his hand lingering at the small of my back as we step outside.

He opens the car door for me, but I don't get in yet.

"So," I say, leaning against the car and looking up at him. "Are you ready?"

He blinks. "For what?"

"For whatever’s next." I tilt my head, grinning. "You. Me. Whiskey. A king-size bed." I tap Thane's mark through my coat. "And two new ones of these."