Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 48

Chapter 48: Grace: Different Wavelengths

Lyre’s hand twitches as whoever it is knocks again, right before her fingers touch the door handle.

Her head jerks back as she scowls, before dropping her arm and stepping back. Leaning against the opposite wall, she crosses her arms and counts silently, her lips moving with each number.

Her confidence is enough to instill awe. I can’t imagine a time I’ve ever felt as if I could just stand in front of a door as someone impatiently knocks, without answering.

And yet it makes all the sense in the world. This is her home. Her sanctuary. Who dares come knocking like this?

I want to be more like her.

"I’m grabbing a soda. Want one?" I whisper, slipping past her to the tiny kitchen nook.

Lyre shakes her head, still counting. I watch her lips move as she mouths, "Forty-two... forty-three..."

The knocking grows more insistent. Harder. Louder. The RV shakes with each impact, swaying gently underfoot. The first night, I’d been mildly seasick over the feeling. Now, I’m used to it.

After pulling a cold can from the fridge, I slide into one of the dinette seats, facing the door. From here, I can’t see the door, but I can watch Lyre’s methodical resistance.

"Eighty-six... eighty-seven..." She hasn’t even glanced at the door again, her eyes closed as her lips continue to move soundlessly.

I’m sure it’s Rafe out there, and am only surprised he isn’t yelling and demanding for us to open up at this point.

Then again, it isn’t like he knows Lyre, and we’re in the middle of a human settlement, even if it isn’t permanent homes. It would be awkward if the human authorities were called, I’m sure. We’re far out of pack range; I have no idea whose territory we are in now, actually.

It isn’t as if I was never taught about other territories, but there are so many, and I had no reason to be interested in packs so far from ours. Only our neighbors and some of the larger packs are familiar names.

"Ninety-eight... ninety-nine... one hundred." Lyre pushes off from the wall and strolls to the door with deliberate slowness.

The knocking has become pounding now, the thin door shuddering in its frame.

Lyre yanks it open. "Yes?" Her voice could freeze a desert in an instant. "What exactly is so important that you felt entitled to damage my property?"

I take a long sip of cold soda, relishing the sweetness. Let Rafe stew out there. Let him explain himself to someone who doesn’t care about his excuses. I’m looking forward to it; Lyre doesn’t seem like the kind of person to deal with his arrogant attitude.

"I’m looking for Grace Harper."

The soda catches in my throat. Not Rafe’s voice. It’s deeper. Colder.

Caine.

I choke, sputtering as the liquid burns down the wrong pipe. My eyes tear with the pain.

There’s a commotion—heavy footsteps, a wolf’s snarl, Lyre protesting, and then there’s Caine in front of me, his giant frame overpowering the tiny camper space. He kneels by my side, eyes locked on mine, storm-gray and intense. His oversized hand whacks at my back as if I’m choking on a peanut and not a sip of carbonated Coke.

My lungs seize with panic. I can’t breathe. Can’t speak. Can’t do anything but stare at the Lycan King who murdered Alpha Brax kneeling in front of me in this ridiculous rainbow camper looking at me like—

His hand connects with my back again, delivering a firm smack between my shoulder blades. The impact dislodges the soda from my airway, and I cough again, the sound much less wet this time.

"Are you okay?" His voice sounds strangely gentle for a serial killer who’s hunted down a runaway.

I gasp, finally drawing air. "What are you doing here?" The words are shrill and tinny, but at least they come out.

Caine’s eyes narrow, scanning my face, my hair, my body. His nostrils flare slightly. "Your hair is blonde."

It’s like deja vu, the way he comments on my appearance. My hand flies self-consciously to my now-blonde strands. "That doesn’t answer my question."

Behind him, Lyre leans against the wall, her slitted eyes observing with unnerving calculation. She doesn’t seem afraid of Caine, which strikes me as either incredibly brave or suicidally stupid.

A strangely familiar black dog pokes his head around Caine’s side with a hopeful whimper, only to have his muzzle shoved back.

I blink.

"You left," Caine says, and if I didn’t know he’s a psychotic serial killer, I’d think he’s a wounded husband hunting down his wife after coming home to signed divorce papers or something. He sounds so... betrayed.

Maybe it’s my imagination.

I shake my head, trying to kick out all these strange thoughts. It’s hard to think clearly, and my heart keeps hammering against my ribcage in a distracting rhythm. Blaming it on fear would be nice, but my body’s all ooh and ahh over his damn cologne-ad smell, which is probably what’s doing it.

My brain and body are not on the same wavelength, and this is a huge problem. Have I turned into some sort of pack bunny, after all? Is it possible to lust over a man’s body like I have no purpose in life beyond being his vapid sex doll? I mean, even Rafe didn’t have this effect on me.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, doing my best to sound like his presence is unwanted. Which it is. Definitely. Even if my body doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo, despite being marked urgent.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify