Page 261 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Whiskey is covered in kids. They're climbing him like a jungle gym while he pretends to be defeated, sprawled backward onto a pile of beanbags with dramatic groaning.

"Silver Ghost is DOWN!" he bellows. "I need backup! The tiny humans… they're overpowering me! Plague! Help!"

Plague is across the room with two quiet kids who haven't joined the chaos. He's sitting cross-legged on the floor, something I've never seen him do voluntarily, while a girl in a knitted cap shows him her chess set. He's examining the pieces with genuine interest.

Valek has drifted to the edge of the room, as he does, but a boy in a motorized wheelchair has rolled up beside him and is asking about his hair.

"Is it real?" the boy asks.

"Unfortunately."

"It's SO white. Like a wolf."

"Thank you."

"Are you a werewolf?"

Valek considers this for a second before grinning at him. And I have to admit, Valek's grin is wolfish.

"Yes."

"SICK."

The boy peels off in his wheelchair to tell his friends, and I catch the faintest crack in Valek's composure. A softening around his silver eyes that vanishes the second he feels me watching.

But I saw it.

I lean against the doorframe and watch my pack scatter through this room full of small, brave, breakable humans.

Wraith is kneeling beside the boy in gauze now. The boy is barely visible beneath the bandages, but his dark eyes are locked on Wraith.

The boy's bandages cover everything below his eyes. His hands are wrapped, too, thick gauze mitts resting on the armrests of his wheelchair. The exposed skin around his eyes is pink and shiny.

Wraith settles lower on his knees, bringing his masked face level with the boy's. The fluorescent lights catch the iridescent webbing of scars that crawl down his throat and disappear beneath his collar.

The boy stares at them.

Then his dark eyes lift to the gaiter.

"Can I see?" he asks.

The room doesn't go silent—Whiskey's still being loudly mauled by his fan club—but it feels like it does to me. Like the air around this corner has thickened.

Wraith's hand drifts to the edge of the gaiter.

He stops.

His blue eyes find mine across the room.

I don't nod. I don't shake my head or do anything except look at him the way I always look at him, because this isn't my choice to make.

He checks to make sure no one else is looking.

He pulls it down hesitantly, baring his face, keeping his head down and body language loose and relaxed to be as nonthreatening as possible.

The burned boy looks at him for a long time.

Wraith holds still, barely breathing. His scarred hands are pressed flat against his own thighs, every line of his massive body braced for the worst.