Page 277 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

The wax seal is perfect. Not a single crack or bubble. Whoever pressed it took their time.

No wonder Valek was gone when I woke up.

I slide my thumb under the flap and break the seal. Inside, there's a single sheet of the same heavy black paper, folded once. The writing is still in Russian, perfectly neat, although written out long form, the handwriting looks slightly sharp and scratchy.

Biting my lip, I take my phone out again and translate. The handwriting is neat enough that the app actually cooperates for once.

Ivy,

If you wish to wear my mark, allow me to earn it.

Allow me to hunt you.

Meet me in the woods behind the house at midnight. If at any moment you wish to stop, use what's in the box.

—V

My heart does a nervous, excited little flop in my chest.

I read it again.

And again.

But what box is he talking about?

Oh. Wait. There's something else in the bouquet. I push the roses aside gently. Tucked among the stems, I find a wooden box. It's maybe six by four inches, dark stained wood, hinged with tiny brass clasps.

I flip the clasps open, then the lid.

It's a fucking flare gun.

Matte black, compact, and loaded with a single red cartridge. It's nestled in dark foam cut to its shape, alongside a note the size of a fortune cookie slip.

Fire once to end the hunt.

My hands are shaking.

And most definitely not from fear.

From the electric, feral, utterly unhinged excitement that's been building since the second I saw those black roses on the doorstep.

He's giving me a safeword.

A loud, visible, unmistakable safeword that lights up the whole sky.

This is the most Valek thing that has ever happened.

I close the box, tuck the letter back in the envelope, and climb back down the ladder.

Four alphas are exactly where I left them, though their positions have shifted in telling ways.

Wraith is standing now, one arm up against the top of the doorframe, his dark shirt riding up just enough to bare a sliver of scarred, toned abdomen. He's watching me carefully, head tilted.

Thane's not far from his brother, arms crossed over his broad chest and his glasses halfway down the bridge of his nose. Plague is pretending to read but his eyes aren't moving. Whiskey has given up all pretense and is just staring up at me like the worried golden retriever he is.

"So," I say.

They wait.