Page 150 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"You're fucking crushing me! Get off!"

They scuffle. Elbows and knees and Plague's hand pressing against Whiskey's face while Whiskey tries to wedge himself into a nonexistent gap between Plague and the armrest.

"Foreplay looks different in every culture, I suppose," I say.

The scuffling stops.

From across the room, Ivy laughs, and Wraith's distant eyes refocus for a moment, tracking the sound to its source, his scarred hand tightening gently on her waist.

She catches my eye when she laughs. Just for a second. And her laugh softens into a smile that lingers in her eyes long after the smile fades and she goes back to her book.

Plague is seething. His eyes bore into the side of my skull for another ten seconds before returning to his screen with a sharp exhale through his nostrils.

But I made her laugh.

Worth it.

The seething, and the fact it was at Plague and Whiskey's expense, is just the icing on top.

Chapter 31

Ivy

I'm going to fucking puke.

And not even metaphorically. I'm actually, physically going to lean over and vomit on these very expensive, very uncomfortable shoes I forced my feet into because sneakers send the wrong message that I'm not taking this seriously.

The right message is please don't destroy my family.

The entire pack—myself included—is at a long table at the front of the room, each of us seated in front of a name placard.

All except for Wraith.

He's standing behind the table, slightly to one side, arms crossed over his chest, flat blue eyes fixed on the back wall above the press corps' heads. The dark scarf Plague gave him is wrapped snugly around his lower face, covering the bandages beneath.

He looks uncharacteristically intense, at least by my standards because I almost always only see the gentle side of him, and the journalists keep sneaking nervous glances at him.

The cameras are already rolling. Phones up. Recorders set on the edge of the press table. The journalists chatter intensely amongst themselves.

Sharks smelling blood in the water.

I press my palms flat against my thighs under the table, trying to keep them from shaking. My statement is loaded on the tablet in front of me. Every word I agonized over, every sentence I rewrote while Wraith slept against my back and Valek silently refilled my coffee.

"Breathe," Valek murmurs from the seat beside me. "If it helps, imagine them all in their underwear. I've been told Americans find that soothing."

I almost laugh. The sound catches in my throat and comes out as something closer to a hiccup. "Who told you that?"

"Whiskey."

"Well. Don't listen to Whiskey."

Valek's lip twitches again. "Alternatively, imagine Wade Kelly's face when I stomped on his knee. I find that image deeply calming."

"You're a psychopath."

"So I've been told. But you're not shaking anymore."

He's right. My hands have gone still in my lap without me noticing.