Page 250 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

I come so hard I don't even know what's happening right away. All I register is the feral sounds coming out of me and the sensation of two alphas filling me with hot pulses of come, purring and growling and snarling.

When I come back to myself, Plague's teeth are in my shoulder, our bond already blooming between us. I feel his control, his terror, and how desperately in love he is with us both despite trying and failing to hold the world and everyone in it at arm's length.

He releases me carefully, licking the wound closed with a soft pass of his tongue, and kisses me.

"I love you," he breathes against my mouth, the taste of my blood coppery on his lips.

"Can I call you Hamsa?" I whisper against his mouth, first.

"Yes," he whispers. "Yes, you can call me that."

"I love you, too, Hamsa."

His eyes flutter shut and he presses his forehead against mine as Whiskey's teeth clamp down on my shoulder.

There's nothing careful about this.

He bites me like I'm his, deep and claiming, a love so complete and sincere it has no idea what to do with itself but explode.

And deeper still, buried so far down I don't think even Whiskey knows it's there, the years of loving in silence, fearing he was malfunctioning.

It hurts. I'm not going to lie. But the warmth flooding through me takes it all away as soon as it surfaces.

"I've got you," he rumbles against my shoulder through his teeth, arms wrapping all the way around me from behind. "I've got you, wildcat. I love you. I love you so fucking much."

I go limp between them, boneless and buzzing, purring the same to him. I'm barely even in my body right now, thoroughly overwhelmed by their awareness of me, and mine of them.

And then I feel something else.

The two of them, aware of each other.

I remember watching Whiskey kiss Plague for the first time while I sat in my first hotel room nest with my heart hammering, knowing even then that what I was witnessing wasn't new.

It was just finally allowed.

I tip my head back against Whiskey's chest and look up at him, then at Plague.

"You should," I say, barely above a whisper.

Whiskey's eyes drop to Plague's throat.

Plague goes very still, his pale eyes wide.

"Yeah," Whiskey says roughly. "Yeah, we fuckin' should, huh?"

They don't ask me to move. I'm still locked between them, knotted and trembling, and they simply lean across me like I'm the bridge they've been circling for months.

Plague's hand comes up first. His fingers find the side of Whiskey's throat, pressing against the pulse hammering there. Whiskey's breath catches.

"If you make a joke right now," Plague whispers, "I swear to⁠—"

"No jokes." Whiskey's voice cracks on the second word. His huge hand cradles the back of Plague's skull, fingers tangling in his dark waves. "Promise. Scout's honor."

They close the distance over my shoulder, mouths meeting in a careful, gentle kiss. The kiss of two alphas who've been running from the same door and finally stopped.

Plague tilts his head first, baring the left side of his throat.

Whiskey sinks his teeth into the curve where Plague's neck meets his shoulder.