Page 422 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Then he pauses, sets it down, and lifts his hands again.

You would start biting anyway.

I bark out a laugh loud enough to scare something with wings out of a tree.

"I would. I've got a track record."

His chest shakes as he goes back to the wheel, and the gravelly huff-huff-huff of his broken laugh is the best sound in this entire forest.

I watch him work. He pulls the flat tire off one-handed and sets it aside, then lifts the spare into place with the same lack of effort and starts threading the nuts on with his scarred fingers, checking each one, tightening in that careful crossing pattern.

And I think about how if a serial killer actually came out of that fog right now, he wouldn't get three feet. Seven feet of feral alpha would just rise, and it would be over before anyone could make a sound, and I'd have to explain to Thane why someone was pulled apart five ways on a mountain road.

I'm not scared out here at all, actually.

I'm the safest omega in this state.

"Do you need me to hold anything?" I ask.

He thinks for a second. I can see in the dark. But you can get the flashlight, if you want.

I grab it out of the door pocket and aim it at the wheel. He signs a thanks before torquing everything down. He lowers the jack and gives the tire a shove with the heel of his palm to test it.

All set, he signs, standing and brushing the dirt on his hands onto his thighs. The subtle glow in his eyes leaves a trail in the fog.

"How far are we from wherever we're going?"

He tilts his head. Ten minutes.

"Ten minutes to what?”

His eyes crinkle as he tosses the flat and the jack into the back, shuts the hatch, and finally signs it.

Diner. Off the highway.

I stop walking.

"A diner?" I ask, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice.

He nods, his eyes flicking away from mine. It's almost midnight. It'll be empty.

I press my fingers against my mouth. "Are you sure? Because we could go back to the tent and I would be thrilled, I promise I have zero complaints about cooking over the campfire⁠—"

He steps in front of me and his hands come up between us, and even in the dark I see how steady he makes them on purpose.

The others got to take you on real dates.

My throat closes.

Thane got a restaurant. Whiskey got the rage room. Plague got the planetarium. Valek got—his hands stall—whatever the fuck that was in the woods.

"A hunt," I say, swallowing. "Val got a hunt."

A hunt. He huffs. This is my chance.

"Okay," I whisper.

Okay?