Page 76 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"Hey, Valek." Whiskey's voice cuts through my brooding. "C'mere. Gotta test something."

Valek arches an eyebrow. "I don't like the sound of that."

"Probably not, but do it anyway." Whiskey grabs Plague by the arm and drags him toward Valek. Plague's legs lock up and he goes rigid. "Smell him."

Plague's pale eyes narrow dangerously as he shoves off Whiskey. "Excuse me?"

"Smell. Him." Whiskey gestures between them like a deranged matchmaker. "We need to make sure we got all of Ivy's scent off. Valek hasn't been around her for more than a few minutes, so he's basically a clean control group. Science, bro."

"That's not how science works," Plague grits out.

"Sure it is. Valek, smell Plague."

Valek's lips curl into something that's not quite a smile. "Gladly."

Before Plague can react, Valek leans in close. Too close. His nose brushes Plague's throat, right where the scent glands are. He breathes in deep and I watch Plague's entire body lock up like someone shoved a live wire up his spine.

"What the fuck—" Plague growls, shoving at Valek's chest.

Valek gives a low chuckle and steps back. "Interesting," he says, meeting Plague's furious, indignant gaze. "You still smell like her. Faintly. I wouldn't smell it if my nose weren't buried in your neck."

Plague's face flushes an impressive shade of red above the surgical mask.

"Wait." Whiskey's voice shifts. "What do you mean interesting?"

Valek finally steps back, that not-smile still playing on his lips. "I mean exactly what I said. He smells like the omega. And it's..." He pauses, head tilting. "Pleasant."

"Pleasant?" Whiskey takes a step forward like a bull about to put Valek through the wall. "You're saying you like the way our omega smells on Plague?"

"I'm saying I find it appealing, yes." Valek's tone is casual. Deliberately so. Like he's not standing in the middle of a pack of territorial alphas who all scent-matched the same omega. "Is that a problem?"

Whiskey's jaw tightens.

I've been so wrapped up in my own misery that I didn't notice it before, but now that I'm looking, his usual easy grin has a brittle edge.

Why?

Before I can even begin to figure out what the fuck is going on, Thane steps between them. "Enough. Both of you," he grits out. "We have a game in less than an hour. Save the posturing for the ice."

Valek backs off with a slight shrug. Whiskey holds his ground for a moment longer, something dark flickering behind his eyes, before he turns away with a muttered curse.

I go to my locker for a fresh shirt—a black one that won't show so much fucking blood—and catch Whiskey's eyes as he passes.

What's wrong? I sign to him.

He scratches at the back of his head, then takes a deep breath and turns fully to face me. "The fans… uh… fuck, I don't know if there's time to even get into it right now. You were in the shower for a long fucking time, bro."

I don't change in front of anyone, but the chance this has something to do with Ivy changes my mind.

Is it about Ivy? I sign, peeling off my gray tank, trying to ignore Whiskey's shocked eyes on my raw, bloodied scars.

"Bro, did you use a cheese grater as a fucking loofah?" he croaks.

I narrow my eyes at him, pulling on a fresh black shirt that blood won't show through. Answer my question.

He shakes his head like he's trying to clear out his mind. "No. No, it doesn't have to do with Ivy."

So I changed in front of him for nothing.