Page 45 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

I watch my family interact with Whiskey and Plague, noting how easily they fold the two alphas into the conversation. How Whiskey makes Finn laugh with exaggerated stories about his Marine days. How Plague and Rae bond over their shared medical backgrounds, discussing the finer points of surgical procedures with the enthusiasm of fellow nerds.

How he's actually loosening up and not sitting there with his spine as stiff as if Vlad Dracula himself had impaled him from ass to skull.

And how my mother beams at all of it like she's collecting these moments to store away forever in her memory.

She does that. Hoards happiness as a dragon hoards gold, building a treasure trove of good memories to balance out all the bad she's seen, taking in strays like me.

The food arrives, and for a blessed few minutes, everyone's too focused on eating to make conversation.

My blue ribeye is perfect. Bloody and tender, exactly how I like it. I slip my own folding knife from my pocket and flick it open in clear view of Whiskey and Plague, unable to keep from grinning slightly when Whiskey jolts.

As I slice into my steak, I'm acutely aware that Whiskey keeps glancing at me like he's wondering if I'm picturing the steak as him.

Or he wants to steal it.

"So Val," my mother says around a bite of her salmon, because of course she can't let us eat in peace, "speaking of romance, are you seeing anyone?"

I nearly choke on my steak.

"No," I grit out, my voice carrying a warning edge that would make most people back off.

My mother is not most people.

"What? It's a reasonable question! You're almost thirty, sweetheart. And you work so hard, you never make time for⁠—"

"I'm fine," I interrupt, lifting my hand hopelessly.

"But wouldn't it be nice to have someone? Like Whiskey and Plague have each other?" She gestures at them with her fork. "Don't you want something like that?"

Kill. Me.

"How's the shoulder?" Plague asks Whiskey, smoothly changing the subject with the skill of someone who's dodged familial matchmaking attempts of his own.

"Fine," Whiskey says, rolling said shoulder in demonstration. The joint pops loudly, and he goes slightly pale. "Barely even feel it."

"You should ice it when we get back to the hotel. You're wincing when you cut your steak," Plague says, and there's genuine concern in his voice.

Whiskey's expression softens. "Yeah, okay. If it'll make you stop bitching."

"I don't bitch."

The meal continues in this vein.

Family teasing and ribbing mixed with measured verbal sparring between me and the two alphas who are clearly here for more than just moral support.

They're pathetically obvious.

Whiskey keeps trying to steer the conversation toward Wade, toward the Demons, toward anything that might give him information. Or ammunition.

Each time, I deliver a warning kick under the table.

And each time, he persists like the stubborn bastard he is.

Plague, to his credit, seems to be trying to rein Whiskey in. I catch him squeezing Whiskey's thigh under the table, sometimes pinching his side, making him wince, and more than once, yelp. Although Whiskey's relentless fishing is less intense now that I made my feelings about Wade Kelly perfectly clear.

It's almost endearing, the way Plague tries to manage his chaos incarnate packmate. I can see why the fans ship them.

"Picture time!" my mother announces as dessert arrives. It’s some kind of chocolate monstrosity that has Finn and Whiskey lunging simultaneously for dessert plates.