Page 307 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Whiskey drops beside Plague, squeezing him in a bear hug from behind, and Plague struggles briefly before accepting his fate and going limp so Whiskey can arrange him like a human body pillow with zero regard for his bones.

Adorable, really.

A puppy pile of alphas.

I'm still lingering at the top of the ladder, half in the loft, half out.

I don't know what I'm waiting for. Permission, maybe. Or an objection from one or more of the other alphas that doesn't seem to be coming.

Ivy pats the space beside her, smiling.

I press my lips together.

She pats it again.

I told her everything. The worst of it.

All of it.

And somehow, this impossible creature still wants me.

I don't understand her at all.

I cross the loft and lower myself carefully into the nest, keeping my back against the wall, my long legs stretched out. I'm close, within reach, but far enough I feel safe.

She reaches back and drags Wraith's arm tighter around her waist, then reaches forward and takes my hand. She gives it a light, experimental tug.

I'm not ready yet.

Wraith shifts behind her, propping himself up on one elbow. His scarred hands sign to me over her shoulder.

Sleep with us. For her.

I watch him.

And for a moment, I'm seeing a ghost.

A silent, gentle alpha with no face, cradling broken little creatures in hands that could crush them without even trying.

My eyes slide to Ivy's, and she tilts her head and whispers the magic word that apparently works on every alpha in the pack house.

"Please?"

Wraith huffs a soft laugh. He knows exactly what she's up to.

I narrow my eyes at her in a glare, but I don't mean it. I just want her to know I'm aware she's casting omega spells on me.

She grins, sweetly.

I flick my damp hair back from my face and sigh, taking my time slipping properly into the nest.

I stretch out on my side in front of her, my arm wrapping around her waist and resting over Wraith’s until she's sandwiched between us, her chest against mine, Wraith's at her back.

She starts to purr. Easily, like it's nothing to her now, and within minutes, everyone in the nest is fighting to stay awake, their eyes closing as alpha purrs join hers one by one. Whiskey’s is more like a chainsaw. I wouldn't call it a purr.

Ivy presses closer, tucking her face against my chest, and I'm suddenly almost too exhausted to pull my arm tighter around her. I manage, somehow, letting my eyes drift shut, my face buried in her hair.

And then…