Page 246 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

I feel perfectly safe.

Plague's mouth travels from my lips to my jaw, down the column of my neck. His hand finds my waist, fingers spanning most of it. He's trembling slightly.

"Hey," I murmur, catching his face. "It's just me."

"I know." His voice is barely a whisper. "That's why I'm nervous."

I pull Plague's mouth back to mine.

He melts into it this time, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders as my fingers card through his loose waves. Behind me, Whiskey's hands slide down my bare sides, thumbs running along my ribs beneath my curves, and I shiver between them.

"Okay," Whiskey rumbles against my ear. "Who's actually first?"

"I already said you can fight for it."

"Bet." Whiskey reaches over my shoulder and flicks Plague's ear.

Plague pulls back from kissing me with a murderous expression. "Did you just⁠—"

"Oops! My hand slipped."

Plague lunges.

I barely have time to roll out of the way before Plague tackles Whiskey across the pillow fortress, sending towel-rolls flying. The duvet canopy snaps free from the chandelier and billows down over all three of us like a parachute.

"Fuck—" I'm tangled in sheets and laughing so hard I can't breathe.

Somewhere under the duvet, I hear scuffling. A grunt. Whiskey's booming laugh and Plague's snarling.

"I will end you," Plague hisses.

"You say that every time and yet here I am, bro. Alive and thriving."

I fight my way out of the duvet and find them wrestling on the bed like stray tomcats. Plague has Whiskey pinned by the throat, or is trying to, at least, but Whiskey's neck is so thick Plague's elegant fingers can barely get purchase. Whiskey just lies there with his arms folded behind his head, grinning up at Plague like he's getting a massage.

Somehow, he lost his robe in the scuffle.

"You done?" Whiskey asks him, his voice strained from being unsuccessfully choked.

Plague's eye twitches.

"Because if you're done, I was gonna suggest we let Ivy decide."

Both alphas look at me.

I'm sitting cross-legged on the wrecked bed, bare from the waist up, hair a mess, grinning like an absolute lunatic.

"Plague first," I say.

Whiskey clutches his chest. "Wildcat. Betrayed!"

"His mouth is smaller," I say simply. "If Plague marks first, it'll leave less damage for your bite to worry about. I'm sure you bite like a fucking alligator."

Whiskey opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. His eyebrows climb. "Huh. That's… actually smart. And I do have a big mouth. Ask Plague how he knows."

"Don't you dare," Plague hisses, trying to smother him with a pillow now as Whiskey shoves against him and laughs.

But the fight's over, and Plague comes to kneel in front of me, his hand finding my bare shoulder, tracing the silver arcs of Thane's mark. The skin there is already tougher and less sensitive, layered with scar tissue old and new.