Page 244 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

The warmth that floods through me makes a coat entirely unnecessarily.

I guide her to our seats in the back row, the ones I specifically requested because they have the widest viewing angle and, more importantly, the most privacy. The recliners tilt back at the touch of a lever, and Ivy sinks into hers with a pleased, cute sound.

I settle beside her.

She's changed into a soft cream sweater and jeans, with thick wool socks inside her boots. Warm enough for the walk from the parking lot, comfortable enough for reclining. Her hair is loose, dyed dark waves brushing her shoulders.

I find myself wondering again if she's going to stop dyeing it, now that she doesn't have to hide. The privacy might not actually be necessary anymore.

At least there are no fans to worry about. I can't exactly hide behind Whiskey and let him do all the talking and selfie-taking when he's promised he's not going to show up.

"It's happening," Ivy whispers as the dome goes dark.

And the stars come out.

It's different from how they appear gradually in nature. The projector brings them all at once, covering every inch of the dome above us as the Milky Way sweeps overhead in a luminous band. Constellations emerge from the chaos one by one as a narrator's voice begins, explaining the lifecycle of the stars.

Ivy's barely breathing. Her hand finds mine, open and waiting, on the armrest between us. Her fingers lace through mine and we both squeeze.

Whatever she's looking at has her absolutely enraptured.

I have no idea what it is.

I'm watching her instead.

The projected starlight plays across her face in shifting colors, her parted lips, her wide eyes reflecting the constellations in unguarded wonder I have never seen on another person.

She's beautiful.

She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and I've seen the Mediterranean at sunset and the inside of a human heart.

She turns to look at me, catching me staring, but I don't look away this time.

The corner of her mouth curves. "You're not watching," she whispers.

"I am," I breathe.

Her smile widens. She leans across the armrest and presses her lips to the corner of my jaw, just below my ear. "You romantic bastard," she breathes against my skin.

My pulse kicks up.

She settles back into her seat, head resting on my shoulder, and I turn my face against her hair and press my lips to her head. Her hand squeezes mine again as the nebulae bloom overhead.

And I think, with the calm certainty of a diagnosis I've finally accepted, that I would watch her watch the stars for the rest of my life and never once look up.

Chapter 51

Ivy

Whiskey has somehow managed to turn the entire bed into a weird alpha version of a nest while Plague and I were at the planetarium.

Which means every pillow in the room has been arranged into a fortress shape, the duvet pulled halfway off the bed and secured to the chandelier with what I think is one of Plague's hair ties to form a canopy. And Whiskey apparently raided the room service cart, because there are enough extra towels rolled into cylinders to form actual walls.

The mini-fridge is wide open and the takeout Plague brought for Whiskey is already gone. He goes over and silently closes it.

"Welcome back," Whiskey says, materializing from the bathroom with his hair soaking wet and his silk bathrobe clinging to his broad shoulders.

Plague jumps out of his skin and the bickering about scaring him again begins.