Page 383 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"It's an omega thing," I announce, settling in and pulling my plate closer across the tablecloth. "It's… a traditional practice where I'm from."

"Where are you from?" Maureen asks immediately.

Shit. Probably shouldn't have tacked that on.

"Canada?" I lie.

Whiskey almost chokes laughing on his pot roast. Plague smacks him hard on the back, unnecessarily, and I'm pretty sure he just wanted to smack him.

Wraith has gone completely still beneath me. Slowly, his arm curls around my waist and his face drops into my hair, and his anxiety fades in one long breath I feel against my scalp.

There we go.

Arthur looks pointedly at Thane with an expression that says what the fuck?

Thane looks back at his father, and I catch the corner of his mouth fighting a losing battle. And I'm sure it's because his parents are obviously scandalized and trying to hide it. This is the most aggressively normal family on the planet. Stepford levels of normal.

Thane is the most normal person in the pack, and compared to his parents, he's super fucking strange.

"So," Maureen says faintly, setting down the gravy that almost ended up all over the table. "Ivy. Tell us about yourself."

"Well," I say, spearing a roasted carrot. "You already know I bit off Wade Kelly's finger and used to live under your son's arena, so honestly, most of it's already public record."

There's no point in even trying to approximate their normalcy, so why bother?

Maureen stares at me, then actually laughs, and everyone's breathing again.

Dinner actually goes… well.

Weirdly well.

Other than my constant internal panicking about how fucking fancy they are and how I feel very much like a feral omega who got plucked out of a tunnel, anyway.

But Maureen is so sweet, it's hard to completely freak out.

She asks about my hobbies and lights up when I mention Thane promised me bookcases. Arthur, Plague, and Valek get into a surprisingly civil conversation about European leagues in the meantime. Wraith drinks his soup in slow, careful pulls behind me.

And Thane spends the whole meal with his spine straight as a goalpost, eating too fast, glancing between his father and the rest of us with the same intensity as if he were on the ice and we're all pucks about to get out of control.

But we all behave. Even Whiskey, because he keeps taking more pot roast and it's keeping his mouth occupied.

"Ma'am," Whiskey says solemnly, reaching for more, "I mean this with all my heart. Next time I gotta bulk for the season, I'm coming here. This is the second greatest thing I've ever put in my mouth."

He's looking straight at me when he says it, of course. Because he can't help himself.

Then he looks at Plague.

"Third."

Plague drops his fork.

I'm pretty sure everyone hears my squeak.

"Speaking of which," Arthur says slowly, setting his own silverware down parallel on his plate. He steeples his fingers. "Would either of you like to explain why the fans are running a frame-by-frame analysis of the scar on Whiskey's neck?"

The table goes silent.

"Uh, what?" Whiskey asks, his ears reddening.