Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 36

Chapter 36: Grace: Eight Hundred Miles

Lyre shifts in her seat, her slitted eyes observing our exchange with quiet interest. She doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t try to persuade either of us. Her neutrality is refreshing after years of wolves who thought they knew what was best for me. Though I wonder what she’s thinking about behind her impassive face. We must sound crazy.

Andrew rubs his hand across his face, losing some of his aggressive denial. Instead, he’s pleading. "You have no idea how dangerous this is. You’re human, Grace."

I look to Lyre. "How far is Yellowstone from here?"

"About eight hundred miles," she says calmly, like we’re discussing the weather or something.

Eight hundred miles. Eight hundred miles between me and the Blue Mountain Pack. Between me and Rafe and Ellie. Between me and the murderous Lycan King.

"You can’t outrun them," Andrew insists. "Especially not the Lycan King. If he wants you—"

I roll my eyes. "Andrew, you brought me here under the assumption we could outrun him. Now you’re changing your story because I’m not going to do what you want. You can’t have it both ways."

"But—"

"He doesn’t care about me. Trust me." The memory of Caine’s gray eyes flashes through my mind—the intensity of his gaze as he wrapped the bandage around my wrist. But I push it away.

"You’re wrong. He—" Andrew stops himself, huffing something between a sigh and a groan.

"He...?"

Grimacing, Andrew shakes his head. "It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re making a mistake. This woman—" he gestures at Lyre, "—you don’t know her. You don’t know what she is."

Lyre’s lips quirk at that. "He’s not wrong about that."

I glance between them. Andrew’s obvious mistrust, Lyre’s casual acknowledgment.

"Are you something other than human?" I ask her directly.

She tilts her head, catlike. "Does it matter?"

The question gives me pause. Does it? After everything I’ve been through with wolves, should I fear other supernatural beings just the same?

But then I think of my life at the pack—the constant reminders of my humanity, my weakness, my otherness.

"No," I decide. "It doesn’t matter. As long as you’re not planning to hurt me."

Lyre smiles, revealing teeth that seem just a touch too sharp. "I have no interest in hurting you, Grace. You’re far more interesting alive."

Andrew makes a strangled noise. "You can’t be serious. Grace, listen to yourself!"

"You should go back, Andrew. Before they notice you’re missing too."

"I’m not leaving you with—"

"You are." My voice hardens. "Because this is my choice. Not yours, not Rafe’s, not Ellie’s. Mine."

Andrew stares at me, frustration evident in every line of his body. His jaw works as if chewing on words he wants to spit out.

Lyre scoots out of the dinette, stretching her lithe body as she stands. "So when do you want to leave? I’m flexible."

"Now would be best." The words come out without my bidding, and I press my lips together, embarrassed. "I mean, if that works for you. I’m not in a position to make demands."

A small smile plays on her lips as she nods. "Now works. Just need to batten down the hatches."

She moves through the cramped space with the fluid grace of someone who knows exactly where every inch of their body is. Her hands reach up to unhook a macramé plant hanger, carefully cradling the vine trailing from it.

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