Page 254 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

I don't remember crossing the yard.

One second I'm on the step and the next, my arm's hooking around Ivan's throat.

He thrashes and the shiv swings wild, slicing the air near my face. I grab his wrist with both hands and twist, his tendons straining, and he screams.

We hit the ground.

The concrete slams the breath out of me and Ivan lands on top, his elbow cracking against my ribs. The shiv skitters loose across the wet ground.

We both lunge for it.

His hand reaches it first but mine closes over his, over the blade, and we wrestle for it. Ivan headbutts me. Stars explode behind my eyes. My grip loosens and he rips the shiv free, bringing it down toward my face.

I catch his wrist an inch from my eye.

We strain against each other. His weight bears down. The sharpened point trembles in the space between us, the metal lighting up in the last of the fading sun.

I twist and his arm goes with the momentum. The shiv reverses and plunges into the soft space below his ribs, angled upward.

A surprised, wet exhale punches out of him.

The weight of him sags onto me and the shiv handle presses against my palm, warm and slick now, and something crunches.

But he stops.

Everything fucking stops.

The yard. The wind. The rattle of the fence.

Just the panting, pained rasp from Ilya's mask somewhere behind me, Cosima crying, and the dead weight of a boy on top of me, hot blood running down my wrist and⁠—

I wake up.

The ceiling is white, no stained tiles.

My bedroom in the pack house.

The sheets are soaked through with sweat, twisted around my legs, and my hand is clenched so tight around nothing that every tendon in my arm bulges. My chest is heaving so hard there's a sharp pain in my ribs.

The ghost of my first fucking kill.

I stare at the dark ceiling and listen to my own ragged breathing fill the room. My right hand slowly uncurls, finger by finger, and I hold it up in the faint light from the window.

No blood.

Chapter 53

Ivy

Wraith's scarred fingers trace the layered marks on my shoulder like he's reading braille.

We're on the couch in the living room, my back against his chest, his knees bracketing my hips. I pulled the collar of my sweater down so he could see. He's been at it for a solid five minutes now, his touch light and gentle.

A low rumble moves through his chest into my spine.

"Beautiful, right?" I ask him, twisting to look up at his face.

His eyes crinkle above the mask, the blue warm and soft. He was wearing it when I came home with Whiskey and Plague half an hour ago, and I haven't had a chance to ask him about it. It's been nonstop chaos.