Filthy rich werewolves by Taylor Caine novel Chapter 10

JASON

I stand to the side and watch Grace perform some mini prayer ceremony.

It seems more human, the way she acts.

Souls can cross time and we’re never really disconnected from our packmates. Heck, I can project my thoughts to any one of them if I so choose. But she has no wolf now, and no pack, so maybe that absence has her so sad.

But it seems deeper than that.

This woman looks…broken.

Her almost-smile is dejected. Her almond-shaped eyes are misty. The light of the candle and the light of the lamp in the corner of the room mix together and cause shadows to dance across her face.

She has arched eyebrows, a small nose, and pink lips. She’s not at all bad-looking, but I’ve seen countless women more attractive than Grace.

Back then, Jennifer Atkinson, my fiancée, had been a rare beauty. Grace's looks are only ordinary in comparison.

I understand her need to say some kind words and to acknowledge her Grandpa’s passing, and her mom’s, but fresh out of prison, declared a rogue, wolf-less and working in a sanitation center, to say she’s ‘doing well’ …is one hell of a stretch.

"Also, grandpa, there’s another person here who's staying with me," she says softly.

I tense.

She turns her head and glances at me. Under the light of the candle, she seems to glow from within.

She smiles like my presence is enough to bring her joy. After a moment, she turns to look at the man in the photo again. "So, I am doing really good, Grandpa. You can rest in peace."

After saying this, she respectfully bows to the photo. She closes her eyes and though her lips move, whatever words she says are too soft even for my wolf hearing.

It’s several minutes before she nods and opens her eyes. “Alright, I'll clean up and make some soup. Let's have dinner together.”

I move until I’m directly in front of her. I’m thinking of last night and how she looked this morning when she left. I touch her face. “This is new…”

She covers the bruise with her hand and looks everywhere but at me. “I, uh, don’t want to talk about it.”

I grunt.

I don’t like her answer. And sure as hell, I’m not used to being shut out by people or told no. When I ask something, people answer me.

She holds out her arm. “Sit. Relax.”

I do only because I’m…unsettled.

I sit on one of the rickety chairs and watch her.

She sets out plates and bowls. Silverware. She pours me a glass of water from the sink before rinsing off some vegetables and setting a pot on the stove to simmer.

Her movements match her name—graceful. And while she doesn’t hum and there’s no sound in the room, there is a rhythm to her motions as if she moves to some languid melody.

I wonder at her wolf.

Would her other side be as lithe or more bold?

The smells from the kitchen gradually take shape. Onions and root vegetables, simmering meat and herbs. The yeast from the buns I bought.

I’ve attended banquets for ruling Alphas that smelled less delicious.

And though the spread Grace places on the table is simple—soup, some egg frittata she’d mixed with leftovers from the refrigerator, a few simple baked rolls—my stomach rumbles.

She smiles.