Page 382 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Wraith's hand comes up. Sir.

"He says hi, sir," Whiskey translates even though I'm sure they know sign language, wedging through the door with the subtlety of a forklift. "Okay, well, he said 'sir,' but the hi was implied. Holy shit, your house is nice. Is that a real fireplace? Plague, look, it's even got a little fire shovel! That's so fuckin' cute! We need a fireplace. I could knock out one of the walls no problem."

"We're already getting a cat," Thane says tiredly. "We don't need a fireplace."

Whiskey hums. "I kinda think we do need a fireplace, bro."

The house is even nicer on the inside, somehow. There are family photos everywhere in perfect custom frames, beautiful hardwood floors, ceilings with moulding, and a chandelier hanging in the entryway that's the size of my fucking nest.

Freaking nest.

Better watch my language, even in my head, before it slips out. They clearly come from old money, and Maureen seems… fragile.

The dining room could seat twenty. There are eight of us, so Maureen has us clustered at one end of a long table covered in lit candles and cloth napkins folded into little fans.

Monogrammed cloth napkins.

Jeans were the wrong choice.

Wraith stops in the doorway.

I can practically see him trying to figure out which chair looks the sturdiest, which wall he should have his back against, and which exit is closest all in the blink of an eye, and then he just… looms.

Hood up and shadowing everything except his scars and sharp teeth, hands in his pockets, over seven feet of gorgeous, terrified alpha suddenly pretending to study a painting of a sailboat he's surely seen plenty of times before.

"Wraith, you're at the end here, next to Thane," Maureen says, patting the back of a solid oak chair at the corner of the table. "I had Arthur bring in the one from his office. It's a very good chair. Perfect for giant alphas."

"I'm a giant alpha," Whiskey teases, sidling up. "You got another?"

Maureen pushes his arm playfully. "No, Whiskey."

Whiskey starts "testing" one of the normal chairs and talking about how he thinks it's going to break and he's going to get impaled up his ass by a chair leg, which makes Maureen turn alternating red and purple colors like a chameleon, effectively distracting everyone else while Wraith crosses the room slowly and lowers himself into the oak chair.

The rest of us find seats. I take the seat next to Wraith's with Thane on the other side of the table, Arthur at the head. Whiskey makes a big show of easing himself into his chair a millimeter at a time. Plague and Valek help Maureen with the food, even though Maureen tried to talk them out of it.

Valek just took the roast from her hands with a smooth "I insist," and Maureen practically melted into a heart-eyed puddle of goo while Arthur grumbled jealously.

I'm both surprised and not surprised Valek is so helpful. Something about the platinum-haired alpha wearing oven mitts to help get the pot roast out of the oven is fucking adorable, actually.

FREAKING, Ivy. Get it together.

The table is covered in food within minutes. There's the pot roast of course, roasted vegetables, spongy fresh bread I lock onto above everything else, a salad peppered with candied nuts. And in front of Wraith, Maureen sets a wide ceramic bowl of thick soup with a stainless steel straw.

"Potato leek," she says briskly, still not making eye contact with him, although I don't know how she could anyway with him being so cautious with his hood. "Thane, um, reminded me you don't like meat, and I thought… well. I hope it's not too much salt."

Wraith stares at the bowl, then at her, and signs a subtle thank you, tapping his fingers against his chin.

Maureen waves it off and flees to her seat, and everyone digs in because Whiskey's already started and they can tell the pot roast is under direct threat.

Wraith picks up the bowl after a few minutes, and I try not to pay attention to his long tongue visible in the corner of my eye, because I'll blush if I do and give myself away. He parts his jaws to slip the steel straw between his teeth and presses it against the roof of his mouth with his tongue so he can drink.

Even though no one is paying attention to him, I feel the anxious hyperawareness rolling off him just as well as I could if we had a physical bond. Every clink of silverware makes his shoulders twitch.

So I do the only thing that ever works.

I pick up my plate, scoot it over next to his bowl, and sit down in his lap.

Arthur pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth, eyebrows climbing, staring at us. Maureen almost drops the gravy.