Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 18: Grace: Pillow

The next morning dawns with somber silence and a pile of bodies in front of the main lodge.

Alpha’s is on top for everyone to see, but it’s the sheer number that makes me want to vomit every time I look out the window. I was right when I thought the Lycan King was a serial killer. He instigated a riot and caused the death of... how many? Twenty? Thirty?

He’s a madman.

And I still don’t understand why he did it.

Alpha’s dead. So is Beta. I don’t know where Rafe is, but I did see Andrew this morning, limping as he helped gather the bodies.

The door creaks. I whirl around, heart in my throat, expecting the mass murderer in question to be standing there.

A red-haired Lycan stands in the doorway, the same one who smirked at my predicament last night. His posture is formal, almost stiff. "Caine thought these might fit you." He extends a stack of fabric.

I don’t move to take it, watching him with suspicion. Caine must be the Lycan King’s name, but that’s just an assumption. It could be any of them.

After standing there for a solid ten seconds, he sighs and walks inside, not bothering to ask for permission as he brushes by me. He places them on the bed before backing away with measured steps. "There’s a bathroom through that door if you’d like to freshen up."

I already know that. It isn’t my first time in the main lodge’s guest quarters, though I’ve never stayed in them overnight. It’s interesting, though, that he’s so concerned about me. Bringing me clothes, urging me to shower?

He—and his kin—massacred my adoptive pack. The Lycan King himself bound me with rope before dragging me to this place.

It’s strange. So strange.

The door clicks shut behind the red-haired Lycan and I sigh, heading to the bed to inspect what he brought.

Shirts, blouses, jeans, and slacks. I guess so I can pick whatever I’m most comfortable with? There’s a pair of sneakers underneath them all, black with rose gold accents, and they look brand new. No socks, though. Or underwear. And yet there’s a bra, though a quick glance at the tag says it’s a little too big, both in bust and cup.

A soft thump outside the door reminds me I’m trapped in here, with a guard stationed in the hall.

This is insane. People don’t just get kidnapped by wolf shifters anymore. They don’t witness massacres, have their entire city get taken over, or get claimed by the king. This isn’t a movie, or a book. It’s my life.

a normal human, I would be worrying about college and my future. As a human in a wolf pack, my life is already different from

jeans from the pile. Simple, comfortable, and not tainted by the events of last night. Perfect for whatever nightmare awaits me

place, but I test it three times. A flimsy barrier between me and whatever guards lurk outside, but it’s something.

of who I used to be—Alpha’s daughter, Rafe’s girlfriend, part of

knows. Enlightening me doesn’t

skin, but I keep it quick. No time to contemplate my situation under the spray. My

the sink. Soap suds swirl down the drain as I scrub

take forever to dry—but at least it won’t soak

least as clean as soap and scrubbing hard can do, though it feels like everyone’s deaths will forever stain my skin—I open the door to

it. The Lycan King lounges on his side, on my bed, like he owns it—which, technically, he probably does now. But that’s not what makes my

my pillow to his face and

you—why are

?!"

I clutch the doorknob and

to mine as

The urge to snatch my pillow from his grasp wars with the instinct to stay perfectly still and keep from antagonizing a killer. And worse than either is the part

it catalogues every part of his face to memory, while lamenting the fact he’s clothed. Casual clothes, just like yesterday. Shirt.

murderer. What does it say about me, when my brain can be so obsessed with his

Each inhale of his makes my

person, that’s

eyes fixed on mine with an

Once. Twice. My mouth

ones." His nose

I care about his breakfast

conversation opener I’ve ever heard, but my throat closes up. Because this isn’t just some weird guy with

me because he plans to make me his slave? That makes sense, I guess. Doesn’t explain why he’s smelling my pillow,

stand here, dripping water onto the carpet, staring at him like he’s speaking another language. Which, honestly,

the other, his arm draped across his

tick on as he doesn’t move

The silence stretches until it feels like a physical thing between us, heavy and thick. I wonder if I’m going to die today, and the thought is almost casual as it