Page 157 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Valek is looking at Plague, and Plague's chopsticks are frozen mid-air.

His light eyes lift to meet Valek's with a flicker of surprise, quickly smothered, replaced by the same blankness he wears like a second mask.

"Да," Plague says.

"Очень интересно."

Plague's eyebrow arches. "Не так уж интересно. Я говорю на четырёх языках."

Valek's mouth curves again, but this isn't his usual freaky grin. This is softer, almost amused, and he leans forward in his armchair with his elbows on his knees, the thermos dangling loosely from one hand. "Четыре? Какие ещё?"

"Арабский, французский и английский, очевидно."

"Впечатляет."

I'm watching this like a tennis match except I can't see the fucking ball.

They're having an entire conversation.

And Plague—my Plague, the Plague who bitches at me for mispronouncing croissant and once spent fifteen minutes Plaguesplaining at me why irregardless isn't a word—is sitting there chatting away in a whole-ass other language with the silver-eyed wolf across the table like they're at a goddamn dinner party.

And Valek is leaning in.

"Мне нравится ваш акцент," Valek says, and I don't know what the fuck it means but I know the tone. It's the kind of tone you use when you're testing how close you can get before the other person pulls back.

Plague doesn't pull back.

"Спасибо," he replies smoothly. "Я учил в университете. Я хотел читать поэзию в оригинале."

They keep going. Back and forth. Valek says something that makes Plague's chopsticks pause again. Plague responds with something clipped that makes Valek laugh. Still kind of a harsh bark because, hey, it's Valek, he's a psycho, but it's genuine.

Plague's ears redden.

And I'm sitting here with my pad see ew getting cold, understanding nothing, watching two multilingual alphas have what is clearly a private conversation in a shared language that I don't speak, and will never speak, because I barely passed high school Spanish.

My jaw tightens.

It's not jealousy.

It's not.

It's just… I don't like not knowing what they're saying. That's all. It's a security thing. A tactical thing. Yeah. We're a pack. It's totally tactical and nothing else.

"I don't like not knowing what y'all are saying," I announce to the room.

Valek doesn't even look at me. "Then learn."

"I barely know English, bro. Ask Plague. If I was gonna learn another language, it'd be Arabic anyway."

Valek arches the smuggest eyebrow I've ever seen. Even smugger than Plague's. "Oh? And why is that?"

I glare at him.

He fuckin' knows why.

Plague's mouth twitches. I see it even from here, the slight pull at the corner of his lips before he schools his expression back to neutral. He picks up his curry again and takes a deliberate bite, not looking at me.

Valek says something that makes Plague's jaw clench and his chopsticks tighten in his grip.