Page 236 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Chapter 49

Ivy

Plague drives even more like a grandma than Thane, which is both expected and hilarious. It's even funnier that his other mate is Whiskey, of all people. The two alphas couldn't be any more opposite.

He's even wearing driving gloves. Black leather, elegant, gripping the wheel at exactly ten and two.

"You're going to tell me where we're going, right?" I ask from the passenger seat. I know we're going to a restaurant tonight because Whiskey could be heard from Antarctica, but that's all.

"You'll see when we arrive."

"That's not ominous at all."

"It's a surprise," he says, flicking his eyes to me for half a second before they're back on the road. "There's a difference."

"Thane said the same thing."

"Then it must be a reliable strategy."

I grin and lean back in my seat, tucking my legs under me. He's not wearing the surgical mask tonight. Just a charcoal wool overcoat over a sharp turtleneck, waves loose past his shoulders because the ponytail apparently didn't survive the final stages of getting ready, and his scent beneath his dark woodsy cologne.

He looks gorgeous.

He always looks gorgeous, but tonight there's something softer about him. Like the mask coming off isn't just literal.

The car slows as he pulls into a small lot beside a building with arched windows and a terrace covered in flowering vines, some of the vines sprawling up the stone and warm-toned brick.

"A Jordanian restaurant?" I ask before I can stop myself.

Plague sighs. "How did you know that?"

I cringe. "Um. Whiskey?"

Plague rolls his eyes. "Whiskey has the operational security of a bull with a megaphone," he says under his breath.

"He was bragging about you, if that helps?"

The tips of his ears redden. He kills the engine and gets out before I can say anything else, pulling his gloves off and pocketing them as he rounds the car to open my door.

I take his offered hand and let him help me out.

Inside, the restaurant is small and warm. Intimate, really. There are only a handful of tables, but it's busy. Tilework in deep blues and golds covers the walls in pretty geometric patterns that remind me of waves. All I can think about is the scent of lamb and spices that immediately make my mouth water.

A woman behind the counter sees Plague and her face lights up. She says something rapid in Arabic, and Plague responds in kind, his voice dropping into a lower, warmer register I've never heard from him. Like the language itself softens something in him.

She leads us to a corner table with a candle in a blue glass holder. Plague introduces me, and we exchange pleasantries while I try to focus on the smalltalk—I'm Ivy, I'm his mate, I promise I'm not famous, Whiskey is back at the pack house and yes, we'll be taking food back for him—and not get totally mentally lost in the smell of food coming from the nearby kitchen.

I don't really know what most of the items on the menu are, so we go with small plates. In a frankly startling amount of time, the table is fucking covered in food. Flatbreads, dips, rice with toasted nuts, grape leaves stuffed with delicious nutty filling, roasted eggplant, pomegranate seeds on half the dishes, and a lamb stew that smells so good my eyes nearly roll back.

"This is mansaf," Plague says, pointing to the lamb dish with reverence. "Fermented yogurt, lamb, rice. If you don't like it, lie to me."

I take a bite.

I don't have to lie.

"Oh my god," I say with my mouth full, already reaching for more.

His lips curve, then break into a smile. Not even a little bit of a smirk this time. An actual smile, complete with a quick flash of teeth before he schools his features into neutrality again.