Page 251 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Plague's entire body locks up beneath me. His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to leave marks there, too, I'm sure, his back arching off the mattress, and the bond I feel through my mark on him whites out with terrified hope.

Whiskey releases him with a shuddering exhale, blood on his lips.

Plague's eyes are wet. I watch him blink once, twice, his jaw working.

He reaches for Whiskey's throat.

Whiskey tips his chin up without hesitation, lowering himself to Plague's mouth. Plague's bite is exactly where the mark will sit closest to the pulse. Any deeper and it might be a problem.

But he knows just where to bite.

Whiskey's arms tighten around both of us and his whole body rumbles with a deep, content purr as Plague licks the blood from his throat. Then looks mildly disturbed by the fact there's blood in his mouth.

Still the same alpha, marked or not.

"Hey," Whiskey murmurs suddenly, "now that we're all marked… can I call ya Hamsa too?"

"No," Plague says immediately, shoving his palm against Whiskey's face, but Whiskey just laughs into it, and through our fresh bonds I feel exactly how much Plague doesn't mean a single word of protest.

Whiskey catches Plague's wrist and kisses his palm instead, still grinning. Plague lets him, and then they're both holding me, burying their faces in my hair.

And for the first time, I feel the true form of what we are. Not separate people orbiting around the same center like most alphas orbiting their omega.

We are a constellation.

Chapter 52

Valek

I'm twelve.

Or thirteen.

The years blur here and no one knows my birthday.

I sit on the concrete step outside the east wing with my back against the frigid wall, knees drawn up. From here, I can see the concrete yard that stretches all the way to the iron fence topped with spikes the older kids are daring each other to climb.

Across the yard, Ilya is crouched behind the maintenance shed.

He's already taller than most of the staff. Shaggy hair even lighter than mine hangs past his jaw in choppy layers, obscuring the straps of the gray gas mask covering his entire face.

He's had it since before I arrived. No one knows where he got it. No one asks, either, because asking Ilya questions requires patience nobody in this building possesses, and he can't answer anyway.

He's mute. The only sounds he makes are growls and the soft mechanical rasp of his breath through the filters of his mask.

I saw him without his mask, once.

It's not a surprise he can't speak.

Right now, the hulking, masked boy is cupping something in his huge, scarred hand. His head is bent forward, shoulders curved inward, his empty uniform jacket sleeve fluttering as his entire massive body shelters whatever he's holding from the wind.

I already know what it is.

He's been carrying it around all day.

A baby pigeon, ugly as sin, pink and bald with huge inky eyes. It fell out of a nest in the eaves above the dormitory window, and it was lucky enough to be found by Ilya before anyone else.

He's been protecting it ever since. During lessons, he kept it on his lap under the desk. I watched him feed it water from the tip of his finger, one drop at a time, his masked head tilted down while the teacher droned about mathematics neither of us will ever use.