Page 42 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"No," I mutter.

That is a lie. I do remember.

"It's fine," Finn says, grinning at me with his usual uncomplicated affection. "I forgive you. The superpower thing sounded legit."

The table laughs. Even Plague's lips twitch slightly, which for him is practically a standing ovation.

I hate this.

I reach for the water glass someone's already poured for me and take a long drink, using the moment to observe.

Whiskey and Plague are sitting close enough that their outer thighs touch under the table. That certainly isn't the careful separation of platonic alpha male packmates. Whiskey's massive arm is slung along the back of the booth behind Plague, fingers occasionally brushing his shoulder.

Plague endures it with the patience of a saint, though his shoulders are tight enough to snap.

The scent rolling off both of them is... complicated.

Cinnamon and winter, yes. That distinctive Whiskey-and-Plague combination that's been irritating my nose since the very first sniff. But underneath, woven through it like a thread of gold through dark fabric, is something else.

Honeysuckle.

Summer rain.

Her.

The omega they're protecting. The one who's clearly their scent match, based on how thoroughly her scent has permeated their skin.

The one I'm certain is Wade Kelly's missing fiancée.

The thought makes my hands tighten into fists. I force them to loosen as I pick up the menu even though I already know what I'm ordering.

"So," my mother says, turning her attention back to Whiskey and Plague with that gleam in her eye that means she's about to meddle to no one's benefit but her own, "how did you two meet?"

I watch Plague's eye twitch. It's subtle, barely there, but I catch it.

"Rookie camp," Whiskey says smoothly, like he's been preparing this story. "I was fresh out of the Marines, didn't know shit about professional hockey culture, and this asshole—" he jerks his thumb at Plague, "—took pity on me."

"I did not take pity," Plague corrects, his tone dry. "You were a liability. Someone had to make sure you didn't get yourself killed."

"See? Pity." Whiskey's grin widens. "And he's been stuck with me ever since."

"Stuck is an accurate description," Plague mutters.

Their banter is smooth. Practiced, even. But there's something off about it. The timing's too perfect, the responses too rehearsed. Like they've had this conversation before, perhaps even before they came.

It's good.

But not good enough.

"That's so sweet!" My mother clasps her good hand to her chest. "You boys are so open. I just love it. Val here is just so private about everything."

Well. Maybe it's good enough for the Carters.

"I'm sitting right here," I point out.

She pats my hand. "Yes, dear. And you're doing wonderfully."

What the hell does that even mean?