Page 99 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

I skate to my packmate with Whiskey right beside me. The Demons defenseman is already backing away, hands raised in that universal gesture of it was an accident, I didn't mean it, which is bullshit and everyone knows it. His arm is bleeding from where it struck Wraith's jaw.

Wraith straightens slowly.

Blood drips from his mask, spotting the ice. His breaths are wet and labored, like he's drowning in blood, as he reaches up and presses the side of his right hand to the left side of his lower face. His eyes burn with cold fury above his mask as the wet fabric sucks against his teeth.

I've never seen him look so afraid.

The trainer rushes out, medical bag in hand. "Let me see."

Wraith shakes his head emphatically.

The trainer looks to Thane. "Captain, he needs to⁠—"

"I know." Thane's voice is tight. He turns to Wraith, switching to signing. Brother. You're hurt.

I'm fine, Wraith signs back sharply. I'm staying.

The trainer is still hovering, still trying to intervene. Wraith turns away with a slight motion of his hand, the final no.

"Brother."

Thane's using his captain voice.

Wraith ignores him.

He skates back into position, blood still dripping from his mask. The refs are conferring, and I overhear them discussing if they should force him off for injury protocol.

But the play hasn't officially stopped, and Wraith is very clearly indicating that he's not going anywhere.

"Fuck," Whiskey breathes beside me. "He's gonna kill someone."

And for once, I can't argue with him.

Chapter 19

Ivy

I'm grinning so hard beneath my mask, my face hurts.

Plague just scored some filthy deke that left the Demons' goalie flopping like a landed fish and Whiskey's losing his shit while Thane shakes his head from the crease. Classic.

But Wraith.

The Demons forwards keep flinching when my mate materializes behind them, abandoning plays they should commit to because seven feet of masked nightmare just appeared in their peripheral vision.

I fucking love watching him play.

"Your boyfriend's scary as shit," the woman next to me says, and I nearly choke on my overpriced soda before I realize she's talking to her friend about some guy who plays for the Demons.

Right. Normal people at a hockey game. Having normal conversations. No one hiding from their psychotic ex-fiancé in plain sight.

Wade's scanning the crowd again. His head swivels constantly toward the upper bowl, pauses, moves on. Searching.

I sink lower in my seat.

He can't know I’m here. I know he can't. The bond he forced on me is dead. I killed it myself with a flat iron.

But he keeps looking toward my section like he can sense the scar tissue where it used to be.