Page 311 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

She hasn't seen the texts yet.

And my jaw is fucking killing me. I can't even think straight to text Whiskey back.

Even my most worn, stretched-out gaiter presses against the nerve cluster below my left ear and every heartbeat sends a pulse of white fire through the tissue there.

I've had it on for forty minutes and it already feels like someone's holding a lit match to my face.

I should take the mask off.

The VIP box is dead quiet except for the low roar of the crowd below and the tinny echo of the PA system bouncing off the glass. The lights are dimmed up here—Ivy asked the staff to turn them down, even though I didn't think I was making it that obvious the light was making this worse—and the tinted windows keep us invisible from the arena below.

We're alone.

Nobody can see us up here.

My hand comes up and hooks the top edge of the gaiter. I pull it down an inch. Cold air hits my scars and I almost groan from relief. The constant fire dims to an uncomfortable but bearable simmer.

I pull it down another inch.

Then I catch the ghost of my reflection in the tinted glass.

I yank the gaiter back up.

The fire comes back immediately, worse than before, like my nerves are punishing me for teasing them with freedom. I adjust the hood of my sweatshirt, pulling it forward, trying to shadow whatever the loose gaiter doesn't cover.

My hands are stiff as I text Whiskey back.

WRAITH

ok

That's all I can manage.

Two fucking weeks.

My tongue presses against the back of my teeth. The sharpened edges catch on the soft tissue, pricking my flesh in an instant reminder that every surface in my jaws is a fucking weapon.

Wade's throat gave under my bite like wet paper. I remember the copper flood across my tongue like it's happening right this second.

How easy it was.

How I almost didn't stop.

My eyes drift to Ivy's shoulder, and the four marks already layered there. Beautiful and deliberate, already healed in shimmering silver.

Mine wouldn't be a mark.

Mine would be a wound.

I lock the phone and shove it between my thigh and the armrest.

"What's wrong?" Ivy asks, already twisting around to look up at me.

She misses nothing. Never has.

I shake my head.

"Misha."