Page 373 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Wraith went upstairs, then to the loft, and I could hear Plague's footsteps right behind him like he was taking a very big, stubborn dog to the vet.

Whiskey eventually sat on him.

T-R-A-I-T-O-R, he grudgingly fingerspelled to me with his free hand as Plague gave him the injection in a massive bicep, crushed beneath Whiskey, while I pet his hair and tried not to show how adorable I found him as he glared half-heartedly at me.

Now he's resting with his face against the back of my neck and his hair falling over my shoulder, his sharp teeth grazing my skin with every exhale. It doesn't make me nervous or bother me. It never does.

His teeth were somewhere much more sensitive on the camping trip.

I shift in his lap and his arms tighten around my waist on instinct, even in sleep. His giant body is warm and slack beneath mine on the couch, where I'm sitting on his lap as usual, his chest rising and falling in slow, even pulls.

Pretty sure I just live on his lap now.

"He's out cold," Whiskey says from the floor, where he's sprawled with his legs stretched halfway across the living room. He's eating cereal dry out of the box with his hand like a barbarian.

"Leave him," Plague says from the armchair, not glancing up from his phone. "He needs to actually sleep properly. He's been through hell."

"The meds kicked in fast," I murmur, running my fingers through Wraith's dark hair. Like Thane's, it's gotten longer than it was before, though it isn't quite as long. I love the way it falls in his blue eyes now, which are closed in sleep.

"They should. I calculated the dose for his body weight." Plague pauses. "Which is… considerable."

Whiskey crunches another handful of cereal. "Yeah. Guy probably weighs as much as I do and he's still got all his abs," he says, patting his stomach. "Pretty fuckin' impressive."

"Not quite as much as you," Plague says dryly, but I catch his eyes roaming Whiskey's bearlike body appreciatively.

Whiskey doesn't seem to notice. No wonder Val thought Whiskey should be the one to visit Claire in the future, which Wraith agreed was a good idea. He really does live in a perpetual state of obliviousness.

"So," Whiskey says, tossing a piece of cereal into the air and catching it in his mouth, "what's the plan today? More PR shit? Because I gotta be honest, I'm getting real fuckin' tired of⁠—"

Thane appears in the doorway and the look on his face kills the sentence in Whiskey's throat.

"What?" I ask warily.

"Wade's family filed a civil suit this morning."

The room goes very still.

"Against who?" Plague asks.

Thane's dark eyes flick to me. "Ivy."

My stomach drops.

Thane leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed. "Defamation, and… emotional distress, believe it or not. Their lawyers are framing Ivy's public statements as a coordinated attack on Wade's reputation and career."

"His career is over because Valek smashed his stupid fuckin' leg," Whiskey says around a mouthful of cereal. "That ain't Ivy's fault. He should've had thicker legs."

Thane waves him off, his eyes holding mine. "They're suing over the public statement. Everything you said at the press conference. The forced mark, the abuse, the tunnels... they're claiming it was fabricated to generate sympathy and destroy his 'brand.'"

Whiskey snorts. "His brand is being a psychopathic dickhead," he mutters.

Wraith shifts beneath me, a low growl vibrating against my back, but he doesn't fully wake.

"Can they do that?" I ask, wincing at how small my voice sounds.

"They can file whatever the fuck they want. Winning is a different story." Thane picks up his phone and flips it around. "But someone already leaked Wade's on-ice mic audio."

Plague's head snaps up. "The mic audio?"