Page 88 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Afraid I'll hurt her.

And afraid to push her away and shatter whatever spell is allowing this impossible moment to exist.

When she finally pulls back, my lungs remember how to work again.

Barely.

"Can I open my eyes?" she asks softly, patiently, like we have all the time in the world even though the game is starting soon.

I nod, swallowing.

Her eyes flutter open, finding me in the crimson dark.

Her gaze travels over every inch of my exposed face in the worst possible lighting.

But her expression holds nothing but affection.

"My mate," she says softly.

My throat burns with words I can't say.

I want to tell her so many things.

That she's the only person whose opinion of me actually matters. That the entire world can think I'm a monster, but as long as she looks at me like this, I can survive it.

That she's my sun and my moon and my stars and everything good in this world.

But there's no time, and my hands won't cooperate, and the words feel too big for the signs she's learned in the short, beautiful span of time she's shone that light on the shadows of my life.

So I just sign thank you and I love you and hope she understands everything those simple words are trying to carry.

Her smile is soft and sad and perfect.

"I love you too," she whispers. "Now let me fix this."

Her hands reach for my mask. She pulls it up carefully, smoothing the fabric into place.

"There," she says finally, leaning back to examine her work. "Perfect."

Nothing about me is perfect.

But she's smiling brightly like she means it anyway, and I don't have the energy to argue.

Thank you, I sign again, trying to smile with my eyes.

"Go kick Wade's ass for me," she says with a sly little grin. "Um. In a game sense. And when you win, we'll celebrate. Yeah?"

I hope she can't see how much my face is heating up.

Whiskey is waiting in the hallway when I emerge from the storage closet, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, chewing his cheek. When he sees me, he straightens up.

"There he is." Whiskey pushes off the wall. "Thought I was gonna have to send in a SWAT team. Or like, a really aggressive therapist with tranq darts. You alright?"

I give him a flat look.

Alive, I sign.

"Yeah, no, I know you're alive, you dork, but are you actually⁠—"