Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 140

Chapter 140: Caine: A Rescue Mutt

CAINE

My family.

Two simple words, and they’ve sunk their way deep into my chest, leading me to stand a little straighter. And if my face seems to glow a little, well, sometimes kings glow.

I adjust Bun against my hip, her little body surprisingly heavy for such a small thing, and her screaming suddenly sounds like music instead of a tantrum.

"NOOOOO!" she screams directly into my ear, her entire body rigid with want as she reaches both arms toward the golden retriever. Her shriek could shatter glass, but I just pat her little bottom with a smile.

"DA DA GA! DA DA GA!"

The old couple laugh, delighted by her enthusiasm. I remain smiling faintly, still patting the young child, completely neutral to the assault on my eardrums.

Let them see a man unbothered by a toddler’s tantrum.

Let them see a father.

"She really loves dogs, I guess," Grace explains, her face flushing pink. "I’m so sorry, she isn’t normally like this..."

Bun thrashes against my hold, her tiny little legs kicking my ribs hard enough to bruise a normal man. She’s too strong for a bunny shifter child. "DA DA GA!" she shrieks again.

I tighten my grip just enough. "No, Bun."

My voice carries no heat, no anger—just absolute finality. Kings don’t negotiate with two-year-olds, especially in front of a strange old couple who considers me her father.

Bun’s face crumples like she’s been mortally wounded. Her screams intensify for exactly eight more seconds before she goes completely limp, draping herself across my forearm in theatrical defeat. Her bottom lip pushes out, and her thumb finds its way to her mouth. She fixes the retriever with a look of such profound longing that I almost—almost—feel bad.

But I don’t put her down.

Grace, on the other hand, looks at me like I’m the worst being on this planet for letting her get to this point.

She’s soft. It’s a good thing. Kids need a soft mother.

The old woman’s eyes crinkle with amusement. "Looks like you’ve got your hands full."

I nod, allowing her the smallest smile. My hands are indeed full—with a soulspliced toddler and her chaotic shifting abilities. My arms cradle a child who, only half an hour ago, transformed into something feral and tried to tear her family apart. But beyond that, my chest swells with something dangerously close to pride.

Family.

Here I stand, holding a baby while a beautiful blonde woman entertains conversation beside me, and our three other children orbit around us.

My arms are full, and my ego is fuller.

Jer picks up a stick, waving it over his head. "Hey, dog! Wanna play fetch?"

Sara joins in, grabbing another stick off the ground. There are plenty. "Let me do it! I can throw farther than you."

"Can not!"

"Can too! I’m bigger, so I can throw harder. It’s called psychics!"

"Physics, Sara. It’s physics."

"Whatever, Ron. You know what I mean."

The golden retriever watches their antics with mild interest, tail wagging lazily. When Jer launches his stick with surprising force for a seven-year-old, Sadie doesn’t move. When Sara’s stick sails even farther—I note with quiet approval she has excellent form—the dog still doesn’t budge.

Instead, Sadie stands, stretches with deliberate slowness, and then ambles over to Grace’s feet. The dog plops down directly onto them, looking up at her with naked adoration in her chocolate-brown eyes.

My jaw tightens. My eyes narrow.

The dog’s strange, showing such affection to my mate. Between my presence, and Fenris, she should be hiding in their camper, unwilling to come out for fear of being hunted by the king of beasts.

And it isn’t as if my Grace is a dog whisperer—she’s just a woman. My woman. The same woman this stupid mutt is far too close to.

The dog presses harder against Grace’s legs, and I have to fight back the urge to snarl.

"She really likes you!" the old woman exclaims.

Grace smiles down at the retriever, reaching to scratch behind her ear. "I like her too."

That’s when I catch it—the barest flicker of something in the dog’s eyes. Something intelligent. Something watchful.

Fuck this mutt.

Show-off.

That’s definitely not a normal dog, Fenris says in my head, his mental voice dripping with disdain. But it doesn’t seem to have any animosity toward us.

Even a kid could see there’s no animosity there, I reply dryly. What amazing observational skills you have, king of all wolves.

I can physically feel the wolf’s outrage slam into me through our bond. A mutt? The ancestral wolf spirit of the Lycan Kings, a creature of legend and magic, reduced to a common mutt?

I will eat her in her sleep, Fenris seethes, his mental voice practically vibrating with indignation.

You will not, I counter, fighting to keep my face neutral. Apparently his devotion to Grace ends where his immense pride begins.

How dare she. After all I... a mutt? She calls me a mutt?!

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