Angry Pucca Novels & Stories

And I knew, deep down, that she wouldn’t hesitate to crush us if it meant reclaiming what was rightfully hers. Luca stormed into our house, his face flushed with anger and his eyes blazing with fury. I had never seen him this enraged before, and it was clear that whatever was about to happen would not be good. He didn’t waste a second, not even bothering to take off his coat or greet anyone. Instead, he pointed a finger directly at me, his voice shaking with barely contained rage.

"At least Adrian's honest about hating me. You're just pathetic." Luca's expression darkened. "You don't understand—" "I understand perfectly." I spotted a wrench on the nearby workbench and grabbed it. "You're a cocky, arrogant alpha who thinks every girl should fall at your feet. Well, guess what? I'm not interested." I threw the wrench. My aim was terrible—probably because I was still technically injured and running on pure rage—but it sailed past Luca's head and smacked directly into the side of his pristine black Porsche with a magnificent *clang*.

But today was different. They didn't arrive with the cheerful, humble smiles they'd worn the last few seasons. Instead, they came in cocky and grumpy; some had already spent the night before spreading memes and trash talk. 2:1 is not a win for a champion. If Briarwood can make our champions sweat, Crestview will send them home. Words like that only aggravated the team's rage. No one was saying it out loud, but the way everyone looked at Marcus said it all. They blamed him, and deep down, I carried a little resentment too. If he'd been a little more generous with the puck, none of this would be happening.

Luca By morning, the fight was everywhere. I woke up to forty-seven missed calls and a text from my publicist that was mostly capital letters. The clip had been viewed eleven million times before midnight. Sports analysts were doing frame-by-frame breakdowns of the moment I dropped my gloves. Commentators were calling it a meltdown, a loss of composure, a side of Luca Devereaux nobody had seen in a decade. One panel show ran a fifteen-minute segment titled The Captain Cracks and used photographs of my face mid-fight that I had not known existed until that morning.

This bitch has gone out of her mind! I slap her hard across the face, and her head turns to the other side, her hair covering her face at the impact of my slap. “I’ve had it with you and your tricks and stubbornness. No more! Do you hear me? No more of it!” I bark in anger. The approaching footsteps I hear make me take my angry gaze away from her and fix it on the entrance so I can see who it is. It takes a while before Luca comes into sight, stumbling and collapsing on the floor. He is disheveled and has bruises on some parts of his body.

Hell, I've made Dmitry so fucking angry, he might as well have been steaming out his ears. I made the guy punch me, for fuck's sake, and he claims to be a pacifist. But I've never seen him as ragey as he is while glaring at me right now. The kind of glare capable of making lesser men drop dead on the spot if only to escape it. "I just wanted to make sure you got home okay last night." I wince as soon as the words come out. Jesus Christ, really, Caspian? That's all you could come up with?

His fear is fading. "I was angry," he says. "I know. I know you were. I could see it in your eyes. I could feel it in your touch. I could taste it in your kiss. I could hear it in your voice. I could sense it in your presence." "Very angry. More angry than I've ever been. More angry than I knew I could be. More angry than I wanted to be. More angry than I could control. More angry than I could contain." "I know. I could feel it. I could taste it. I could see it. I could hear it. I could sense it."

Chris, caught by surprise, quickly darted to catch up, nearly bumping into me as we reached the corner of the bar, and for the first time giving me a view of the angel sitting just three stools down. “Hey Lucca! Long time no see!” the fresh-faced bartender waved as he strolled over to us, leaning against the bar top lazily. “Awesome to see you man.” He added as he extended his hand for a friendly handshake. I smiled warmly at the barkeep. He was a wolf from a neighboring pack, a Gamma if memory serves correctly.

Ricardo’s POV The recording ends, and I lean back with the glass of whiskey in my hand and my eyes on Angelo. His jaw tightens, then he stands so fast and shouts, “Fuck! That fucking golden prick!” The rage on his face is a pure and beautiful thing to see, why? Because I hardly ever see Angelo get this angry if it’s not over something I caused. “Calm down, brother,” I mutter.

I stare at the banner till my vision blurs. Then my hands quiver as claws rip through my palms, and my bones groan with the shift. I step forward, a balloon squeals and bursts near my feet. And then, I lunge. I tear the banner down with both hands, shred it in two. “FUCK!” Another balloon pops underfoot. Streamers fly across the room, I launch a chair against the wall. My claws rip the edges of the table, it groans as it crashes into the floor, the cake follows after.