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.

human in a wolf pack, my

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

place, but I test it three times. A flimsy barrier between me and whatever guards lurk outside, but it’s something. The sound of running water fills

for a moment, I see the ghost of who I used to be—Alpha’s daughter, Rafe’s girlfriend, part of a pack. Now what am

me doesn’t seem high on anyone’s priority

keep it quick. No time to contemplate my situation under the spray. My muscles ache from being bound,

by hand in the sink. Soap suds swirl down the drain as I scrub them clean, along with my bra. Both

wet hair goes into a messy bun, where it’ll take forever to dry—but at least it won’t soak my shirt. The

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

side, on my bed, like he owns it—which, technically, he probably does now. But

to his face

you—why are you—what

?!"

moment, as I clutch the doorknob and stare

mine as he takes a deep

still and keep from antagonizing a killer. And worse than either is the part of

in front of me, even as it catalogues every part of his face to memory, while lamenting the fact he’s clothed. Casual clothes, just like

when my brain can be so obsessed with

in my pillow, and the silence stretches thin between us. Each inhale of his makes my skin crawl. What kind of person—king or not—breaks into someone’s

psychotic person, that’s

finally sits up, gray eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that pins

My mouth opens, but no sound comes

His nose wrinkles

Why would I care about

my throat closes up. Because

me his slave? That makes sense, I guess.

staring at him like he’s speaking another language. Which, honestly, he might as well

his arm draped across his thigh with casual elegance that doesn’t match the predatory

to tick on as he doesn’t move or

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