Page 109 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"Just breathe," I murmur, running my fingers through his hair, scraping my nails against his scalp. "I'm not going anywhere. Promise."

Footsteps approach. The trainer, I think, judging by the hesitant sound of blades tapping the floor and nervous gulping.

"Give 'em a minute," Whiskey says. "He's not gonna hurt her."

"He just—" The trainer's voice cracks with fear.

"He's not gonna hurt her."

The footsteps retreat.

I keep purring. Keep stroking Wraith's hair. Keep murmuring soft, meaningless sounds against his ear while his massive hands span my entire back, holding me like I'm the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

Maybe I am.

"Ivy."

Plague sounds like he's right beside me.

I feel Wraith tense beneath me, a low growl building in his chest.

"It's just Plague," I whisper to him. "He wants to help."

The growl doesn't stop, but it doesn't escalate either.

That's… progress, I guess.

I turn my head slightly to find Plague standing a few feet away, a medical kit in his hands. His usual surgical mask is in place again, but his eyes above it are softer than I've ever seen them.

"He needs treatment," Plague says quietly. "And I don't think he's going to agree to go to a hospital."

Wraith's arms tighten around me and he presses harder into my shoulder like he's trying to disappear.

"I know." I shift slightly in his lap, creating space for Plague to work without actually moving away. "Can you do it here? With me like this?"

Plague's eyebrow arches above his mask. Then he nods once and steps closer.

The first touch of antiseptic-soaked gauze against Wraith's face makes him jerk back so hard his skull cracks against the locker. A panicked snarl rips from his throat and his hands fly up to shove Plague away. Or attack him.

"Wait—" I grab Wraith's wrists before he can make contact. "Wait, wait, wait. It's okay. It's just Plague."

But Wraith's breathing has gone ragged again, chest heaving, and the tremors have starting back up in his arms.

"Maybe not his face," I say quietly to Plague. "Not yet. Can you clean up his hands first?"

Plague's eyes flick between us like I'm at the vet with my pet lion. Then he nods and shifts his attention to Wraith's bloodied knuckles instead.

It takes three failed attempts before Wraith stops flinching at every touch.

"I know," I say again, pressing my forehead against his. "I know it sucks. But Plague's gentle, okay? He's your packmate. Just breathe through it."

He tries. He tries so fucking hard. This alpha is so touch-starved, even being touched by his packmate like this makes him jolt. Like he thinks the next touch might be a strike.

Plague finishes with Wraith's hands and sets down the gauze. His eyes go to Wraith's face, taking in the split scar tissue, the blood still seeping down his jaw.

"I need to suture this," he says quietly. "The scarring split deep when that asshole hit him."

Wraith goes rigid and lets out another broken growl. His hands come up, shaking, signing fast and jerky. I only catch fragments. He hasn't gone completely feral, somehow, but he's feral enough it's fucking with his ability to communicate.