Page 110 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

No. Can't. Not right now. Too much. Wait⁠—

"Hey. Hey, hey, hey…" I reach for his hands.

His hands falter, then drop. He presses his palms against his eyes like he can block out a million strangers watching him in high definition.

"I know. I'm so sorry," I whisper, wrapping my arms around his upper back again and clutching him. I meet Plague's concerned pale eyes over Wraith's shoulder. "Can I do it? You could talk me through it, right?"

He shakes his head. "The sutures need to be precise or it could get worse. I've done this before." A pause. "I was in medical school. Um. Before."

"What happened?" I ask, hoping some smalltalk will help distract Wraith. He isn't looking right now, but Plague is already prepping the suture kit and I don't want him to see the needles. His medical trauma runs deep.

"I made a mistake," Plague mumbles, not looking at me.

"A mistake?" I repeat, surprised. Plague doesn't seem capable of mistakes.

His pale eyes flick to mine as he threads the needle. "It wasn't an academic mistake," he mutters, and that's the end of that.

Fair enough.

"This will sting," Plague warns gently.

Wraith's hands grip my back harder. The needle slides into the split scar above his upper teeth and his whole body jerks, a snarl tearing from his throat.

"I know." I stroke his hair. "You're doing good. Breathe."

Another stitch. Another flinch. His breathing goes ragged and he's holding me so tight I feel my bones creaking. The purr in my chest deepens, rumbling through his body. I can feel it through his back where I'm clutching him through his jersey, and slowly but surely, his breathing begins to even out again.

"Almost done," Plague murmurs. "Two more."

Two more stitches. Then Plague steps back, snapping off his gloves.

"Done. Keep it clean."

Wraith's arms crush me harder against him and I let him, purring as much as I can, petting his hair and nuzzling his ear. His death grip on my back loosens into something closer to an embrace. He's checking out. I let him do that, too.

I catch movement in my peripheral vision and glance toward the door. Valek has positioned himself there, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.

Standing guard.

He did his part. He removed Wade from the equation and delivered me to Wraith. Now he's watching the entrance rather than the scene, his silver eyes scanning the hallway beyond with strange, casual indifference.

The door bangs open.

Police and league officials in sharp suits swarm in. There's no stopping them, so no one tries, but the pack shifts automatically, forming a loose protective formation around me and Wraith. Whiskey moves to block the most direct path. Plague follows suit, lingering watchfully between us.

Wraith hasn't moved his face from my neck, and every time someone new enters the room, I feel him tense up. He's running on fumes. I can feel it in the way his massive body sags against mine, all that power drained dry.

And Valek stays where he is, apart from our pack but between them and the cops.

One of the cops hangs back near the door, hand resting on his holster, eyes fixed on Wraith like he's calculating threat levels.

But the cops are the real threat here. I know how dangerous and abusive they are to ferals. I cling tighter to Wraith, perfectly willing to use myself as a human shield if I have to.

Wraith curls tighter around me, pressing his face harder into my neck like he can disappear if he just stops existing hard enough.

One of the officials clears his throat. "We need to ask some questions."

Thane's jaw works. "Can it wait?"