Page 200 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

I didn't even realize I was fucking pacing.

I walk into the living room and drop into the armchair.

We’re all stuck in waiting mode with Ivy gone. Whiskey's reclaimed the couch, legs stretched over Plague's lap while the pretty alpha reads and sips his tea. Wraith sits on the floor near the door, back against the wall, his head tipped back and partially bandaged face uncovered above the loose dark scarf around his neck. The light above the door shines on his teeth and iridescent scars.

Perhaps he’s letting his guard down.

That makes one of us.

Or perhaps his face hurts.

"She's fine," Plague says without looking up from his book. Seems he's saying it to himself more than me. "She's with Thane."

"I know," I grumble.

"Then stop fidgeting."

I'm not fidgeting, but my thumb is pressed against the cigarette burn scar on my wrist, and I stop before he brings attention to that being a tic. The last thing I need is Whiskey worrying about my scars.

I'd rather him fucking harass me.

Whiskey rolls his head toward me. "You know what we should be doing instead of sitting here like sad puppies abandoned in a wet cardboard box?"

"Thanks for the devastating mental image," Plague mutters.

Wraith gives a soft, unhappy sound of agreement, looking up.

Whiskey sits up, dislodging his phone, which slides off his stomach and wedges between the cushions. He shoves his hand in after it and gives up immediately. Clearly a job for someone with smaller hands.

Like Ivy, my brain helpfully supplies.

My chest twinges.

Fuck, I miss her.

FUCK.

"We should be planning," Whiskey continues.

Wraith's blue eyes refocus and track to Whiskey, his head tilting.

"Planning what?" I ask, even though I'm not sure I want to know.

"Dates, bro. Dates." He spreads his hands wide in emphasis. "Thane's out there right now setting the bar. You know he's setting the fuckin' bar. You think I'm gonna let Captain Candlelight outclass me? Fuck no."

Plague closes his book slowly. "That's… alarmingly ambitious. Aren't you taking her to the rage room?"

Whiskey grins. "Fuck yeah. And she's gonna love it." His voice drops and loses the usual bluster. "She was hiding for months. I want her to scream and break shit and not worry about who hears."

He has a point. Even Plague doesn't have a comeback for that.

Wraith nods slowly. She would like that, he agrees.

Whiskey clears his throat and the volume comes right back. "Plus there's this place downtown that lets you pick your own weapon. Baseball bats, crowbars, golf clubs. They've got a fucking sledgehammer, Plague. She loves smashing shit." He glances at me. "Sorry."

"No, it's true," I say.

"What about you?" Whiskey aims a finger gun at Plague. "You got a plan?"