Page 265 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

He scrambles for the call button on the bed rail, but his strapped arm won't reach and his free hand is tangled in IV tubing.

I stop at the foot of his bed.

He stops scrambling.

We stare at each other.

"You can't be in here," he says. His voice comes out higher than he wants it to. He clears his throat and tries again. "This is harassment. You and those other two fucking freak alphas⁠—"

I go to the whiteboard on the wall beside his bed. There's a marker dangling from a string.

I uncap it.

Wade watches me with wide eyes as I write in jagged letters across the entire whiteboard, everything slanting in different directions because my scarred hands don't grip the marker right and I'm pissed.

IF YOU COME WITHIN 500 MILES OF IVY I WILL KILL YOU

Wade squints at it. His jaw works for a second, the fear still right there behind his eyes, before the mask slides back into place.

"Is that even fucking English?"

I grip the marker tight enough it creaks, then wipe the board clean with my forearm. If he can't read my words, I'll make him fucking see them.

I draw him first.

I'm better at drawing than I am writing. Wade takes shape on the whiteboard in quick, sloppy strokes because I don't give a fuck. His styled hair, with extra swoops. His symmetrical jaw. I make his smile extra wide and make sure all his teeth are intact for this.

I even draw the missing finger.

Then I draw myself next to him. Twice his size. Full monster face.

"Is that supposed to be—" Wade starts.

I uncap the red marker.

Red lines explode across the drawing. Slashing through whiteboard-Wade's body, tearing him apart in violent streaks. I drag the marker through his arms, his legs, his perfect fucking face, until the stick figure is obliterated beneath a mess of crimson and bits of red marker dust spray across the board.

Wade's mouth slams shut.

There's a pain scale printed on the side of the board, the standard hospital one, a row of faces going from a green smiley at one to a screaming red face at ten, labeled WORST POSSIBLE PAIN.

I circle the screaming red face hard enough the tip of the marker cracks off.

I point at Wade.

Then I hold up both hands, palms facing each other about shoulder-width apart, and bring them together and twist the imaginary Wade in my hands.

Wade's face has gone from pale to gray, sweat beading at his temples. The hand that isn't strapped down is gripping the bed rail so hard it's shaking.

Then his jaw sets.

Because Wade Kelly has never known when to stop. Alphas like Wade can't resist the need to win.

"You know what's funny?" Wade asks, shifting on the bed and wincing. His voice has steadied despite the sour stench of fear leaking through his skin. "I've been lying here thinking about you and Ivy."

I don't move.

"Trying to picture it." He tilts his head against the pillow, studying me with those camera-ready eyes. "You and her. Together. And I just…" He gives a soft laugh. "I can't."