Page 276 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

There are black roses on the doorstep.

A full bouquet of them, so dark they're almost purple, arranged in black tissue paper and tied with a satin ribbon the exact color of blood. There's a black envelope next to them.

I bend down and pick up the envelope first. It's heavy. Expensive paper, not the flimsy shit you get at the drugstore. And on the back, pressed into a circle of deep red wax…

A V.

"Whoa," I breathe.

"What is it?" Thane calls from behind me.

“First she kills me, now there's murder flowers,” Whiskey groans, rubbing his stomach where I probably rearranged his organs with my elbow.

I grab the murder flowers too and bring everything inside, kicking the door shut with my heel. The bouquet is heavier than it looks, and I have to hold it close to my chest so it doesn't tip out of my arms and end up all over the floor.

They smell incredible, and there's a small card tucked between the stems. I pull it free, glancing over the handwriting automatically before I register it's not English.

It's in Russian.

Of course it is.

"What does it say?" Whiskey cranes over my shoulder.

"Give me a second." I pull up the translate app on my phone. I could always just ask Wraith or Plague to translate, but I want to read it myself. I angle the camera over the card and wait for the text to resolve.

Open alone.

My heart flutters.

"What?" Whiskey demands, trying to read the screen.

I flip the phone against my chest. "It's private."

"Private?" Whiskey's eyebrows shoot to his hairline. "From the mysterious alpha who disappeared before dawn and left spooky flowers on the porch? Ivy, c'mon⁠—"

"It's fine. And you know it's fine." I tuck the card back into the bouquet. "I could always show you my lockscreen if you need a reminder of just how fine it is."

Whiskey's face turns beet red. So do Plague's ears.

"I'm going up to the loft," I announce.

"Alone?" Thane asks.

"Yep!"

I turn to head that way and walk directly into a wall. A wall that catches me before I can topple backward and land on my ass.

I look up—way up—into Wraith’s uncertain blue eyes, his hands still on my waist. But the tilt of his head and the softness in his eyes and set of his scarred jaw makes him look curious, not alarmed.

I pull him down to me and rise up on my tiptoes to press my lips to his forehead, right between his eyebrows.

"I'll be right back," I promise him. "Stay."

He huffs.

I feel all four alphas’ eyes on me as I climb the ladder to the loft and pull the hatch shut behind me.

The nest is still warm and covered in all their scents from last night. I settle cross-legged in the center of it, set the roses beside me, and turn the black envelope over in my hands.