Page 50 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"I don't know!" Thane looks genuinely distressed.

Wraith's shoulders shake with silent laughter.

"Okay, new plan." I take the whisk away from Thane before he can cause more damage. "You stand there and look pretty. Wraith and I will handle actual food prep."

"I can do more than stand here⁠—"

"Can you?"

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Scowls. "Noted."

The rest of breakfast prep goes more smoothly once I ban Thane from touching anything. Wraith proves to be a surprisingly good kitchen partner, following my directions without question and somehow anticipating what I need before I ask for it. He seems to be enjoying every moment of this, too.

When the omelets are done, perfectly golden and stuffed with vegetables and cheese, we face a new problem.

Wraith still won't eat in front of us.

I can tell because he's gone still, his eyes darting warily between the plates of food and the bathroom door and the fire escape window, like he's trying to figure out how to politely disappear so he can eat alone in some dark corner.

Not happening.

Not if I can help it.

"Okay," I announce, grabbing a pillow from the nest. "New arrangement. We're eating over here." I march over to the couch and plop into the middle. "Wraith, you sit here." I pat the middle cushion. "I'll sit with my back to yours. Thane, you can sit in front of me."

"What's the pillow for?" Thane asks.

I hold it up with a grin. "Privacy wall."

Wraith stares at the pillow, his body completely still. At first, he doesn’t move at all, and I wonder if I've overstepped. But then I see his hands, clenched at his sides, slowly uncurl. His shoulders, which are perpetually tense, drop a fraction of an inch. It's a tiny shift, but on a man made of stone and pain, it’s an earthquake.

He moves to the couch and settles on the end so he's facing the wall. He barely fits like this—he barely fits on the couch even when he's sitting normally—but he still manages to fold himself into the space. I scoot closer to him until my back presses against his, which feels more like pressing my back against a brick wall, and I offer a soft purr to soothe his clearly frayed nerves.

He presses back against me with a rumble of his own.

"Perfect," I say, placing the pillow between the backs of our heads for extra coverage. "Now we can eat without anyone feeling watched."

"Except me," Thane says, squeezing himself onto the other end of the couch, crossing his legs to try to take up less space. "Are we really going to stare into each other's eyes the entire time?"

"Yep," I say cheerfully. "Want to put on some TV?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure," Thane says, flipping it on and scrolling through the channels until he lands on some trashy reality show where everyone stranded on a deserted island is an alpha, and they're trying to figure out which of the survivors is an omega.

The catch is, none of them are.

They're all alphas.

No one changes the channel.

We stay like this for a while, enjoying our food and the absolute trash on the screen, watching people make catastrophically bad decisions on television. It's domestic and normal, and everything I never thought I'd have again.

The show cuts to commercial. Local news anchors appear on screen, their practiced smiles too bright for the gray morning.

"The upcoming matchup between the Ghosts and the Demons has hockey fans buzzing," the male anchor announces. "It's one of the biggest games of the season, with both teams fighting for playoff positioning."

My stomach drops.

The screen cuts to footage of Wade. He's in his element, full of confidence and power, looking like Superman on ice with his perfect blond hair and million-watt smile, executing plays with the kind of brutal certainty that made him a star.