Page 192 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Classically romantic.

And… yep. Normal.

Fuck, I hope I'm not boring.

Concern about being a bore is why I still haven't cut my hair, which has gotten long enough to reach my shoulders now. If I cut it and style it again instead of letting it grow out, I'm going to be even more fucking normal, and Ivy doesn't seem to like normal, considering… the rest of the Ghosts.

I hope it's at least a good thing that I'm constant and stable, which is a fucking joke considering I put my fists through walls on special occasions. But I'm nothing like the other four alphas in our psycho pack.

It's a good restaurant. She'll love it.

Hopefully.

She'd probably also love whatever unholy mayhem the other alphas would conjure up, is the thing. Because apparently I pack-bonded with a collection of fucking cryptids and I'm the only one who plans dates like a human being.

Earlier today, after breakfast, I overheard the others coming up with their own ideas. Whiskey's idea of a date is a rage room with fireworks after. And it sounded like the fireworks part of the date involved being the ones to light the fuses.

Illegally.

Redneck shit, he'd said. She'll fuckin' LOVE redneck shit. She knocked out Valek with a fire extinguisher, bro! She's got the spirit already.

I pull into the parking garage, kill the engine, and sit there for a few minutes, scrubbing a hand down my face in crisis about whether I need to do some other shit tonight to spice things up for our feral omega.

Maybe a movie after.

Maybe even a horror movie.

… FUUUUCK.

Chapter 40

Ivy

Inearly dislocate my fucking shoulder zipping up the back of my dress.

Worth it.

It's a gorgeous deep green dress with thin straps, soft enough to move when I do without any seams driving me crazy when I bend down. I ordered it online and sent Whiskey and Plague off to pick it up for me while I got ready for my date with Thane.

They came back with the dress and a bucket of chicken wings, and there was sauce in Plague's hair, and he was pissed.

But the dress didn't get sauced, and that's the important part.

Sorry, Plague.

I internally apologize for using the kitchen scissors to get the tags off, too. They're going back in the knife block before he notices.

The only problem with the dress is my scar. It's right there, shiny and pearlescent on my bare shoulder.

I reach automatically for the shawl I set aside on the bathroom counter. Then I catch myself doing it and feel like shit.

I've kissed Wraith's scars. I've told him he's beautiful and meant it down to my bones. And here I am about to hide mine because some asshole at a restaurant might stare.

The shawl stays on the counter. Every person in this country with an internet connection has read about the flat iron anyway.

If anyone so much as glances twice at my scar, they can shove breadsticks up their ass.

Out in the living room, the pack is in its usual evening formation. Whiskey has two-thirds of the couch and a bag of chips on his bare stomach, scrolling his phone. Plague has squeezed into the remaining third with a book. Valek's sprawled in the armchair, eyes closed. Napping, probably, but I see his eye crack open a sliver and find me.