Page 256 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"Can I?"

He hesitates. His blue eyes flick to Valek.

"I'm not looking," Valek says from behind his book.

Wraith exhales through his nose and nods.

I ease the gaiter down.

The edges of the bandages I applied are curling, and I lift them a little. Beneath the gauze, the sutures are healing well. But the exposed muscle on that side is spasming slightly. I'd miss it if I weren't so close.

"You're hurting," I murmur.

His jaw tightens, the muscle pulling tighter.

I peel the old bandage away carefully. He holds perfectly still, barely breathing, his hands gripping my thighs. When the adhesive pulls against the sensitive tissue, a stifled growl rumbles in his throat.

The skin beneath the bandage looks better than I expected, all things considered.

"I don't think you need this anymore," I say, holding up the spent bandage.

He blinks.

The bandage?

"Yeah. It's healed enough. Fresh air will be better for it than anything else."

Emphasis on fresh air.

His hand drifts toward his face.

"Don't touch," I warn, catching his wrist.

He huffs.

I smooth my thumb along the line of his jaw, avoiding the sutures, tracing the border where his smooth skin meets jagged, silky scars.

His eyes slide shut.

"Your masks are hurting you more, aren't they?" I ask quietly.

He doesn't answer right away, his blue eyes cracking open slightly to meet mine. They're flat with misery as he nods.

I felt better without it, he signs. I put it back on this morning to see. It's… getting worse.

Fuck.

Plague warned me this morning when we were getting ready to come home that he thought this was going to happen. That masks that used to be tolerable are becoming instruments of torture, and there's no version of this that gets better on its own.

I look at the gaiter bunched around his throat. It isn't just a mask for him. It lets him exist in public.

Without it, he's trapped.

With it, he's in pain.

Lose-lose.

My throat tightens.