Page 272 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"No."

"Then I'll work with what I have." She picks her tea back up, unbothered. "Which is a guy who steals Plague's fancy tea, threatens my abuser in a hospital, and can't figure out how to accept that people like him."

I exhale through my nose and stare at the ceiling, my teeth grinding together.

"So," she says, her voice shifting into a lighter, almost chipper register at an hour that would be ungodly for any other omega. "What are you planning for our date?"

"Date?" I ask flatly, blinking at her.

She grins, nodding.

She knows.

She knows I've been thinking about it. She knows I've been relentlessly turning it over and over in my head, rejecting every option, and circling back to the same handful and discarding those too.

I'm supposed to show her what's underneath all of this. The deal I made with myself that when I take her out, I tell her everything.

Every rotten, blood-soaked piece of it.

And then she decides if I stay or go.

"Nothing," I say.

"Nothing?" she repeats, delighted.

She's impossible.

"How adventurous are you?" I ask, pivoting hard.

"Pretty fucking adventurous." She leans forward on the counter, her bare feet swinging, heels bumping the cabinet. "Anyway, if you tried anything, I'd knock you out again. And I have four alphas as backup." She takes a sip of tea. "And you wouldn't try anything. I trust you."

She shouldn't.

I killed a boy when I was twelve. Felt the shiv go in and the fight leave his body and the wet heat of his blood on my hands, and the worst part is, I wanted more.

Needed more.

And I got what I needed.

I always do.

There is nothing good at the center of me. I peeled back every layer looking for something worth keeping and found only rot and violence and a talent for hurting people before they ever get the chance to hurt me.

I'm fundamentally broken to the core.

And yet Ivy kissed me, and I kissed her back and I wanted it, wanted her, and wanting is the most dangerous thing that's happened to me in my entire life.

Because wanting means losing.

And I don't lose well.

She sets her moose mug down on the counter with a clunk and slides off the edge. I catch her just before her bare feet hit the floor.

"See?" she says, pointedly, grinning again. "You caught me."

I narrow my eyes at her. Hm.

"Come up to the loft," she says, tugging on my hand. "Sleep with us."