Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 40: Caine: Tracking (I)

There’s an itch under my skin I can’t get rid of, and it isn’t helping my temper. I’ve already been to Forest Springs, only to find out Grace isn’t anywhere in their territory. Their Alpha, however, is a reasonable man.

He traded his pet warlock for his life. I didn’t spill a single drop of blood, something I’ll have to remember to tell the girl later; it’ll show her I’m capable of holding back.

The thought of her relief when I tell her helps soothe the itch, until Fenris snaps, You still don’t get it, you idiot.

He’s barely said a word to me since we discovered Grace missing two nights ago.

My new warlock’s hands shake as he takes her pillow from me. My fingers twitch. I want to snatch it back—the soft bundle of polyester fluff still smells like her.

"This will do nicely," he says, his voice thin and reedy. The Forest Springs Alpha wasn’t lying when he said his pet magic user was skittish. What’s his name again?

Thom, Fenris snarls.

Right, Thom.

My lip curls. "I don’t need your commentary, Thom. Just find her."

The warlock adjusts his peculiar glasses—thick, smoked lenses with copper wire wrapping around the frames. They look ridiculous, but I know their purpose. They shield his eyes from what witches call "magical ambience"—the glow that surrounds every living thing that normal people can’t see.

You drove her away, Fenris growls, his presence swelling with accusation. Our mate is gone because of you.

"She’s not our mate," I mutter, too low for the warlock to hear.

Lies

.

the moment we realized Grace had fled, he’s been half-feral, snapping and snarling. The guard for her bedroom is yet another body she’s going to

should, he mutters, like he isn’t the one

I fight to keep my hands at my side and

freezes, his owlish eyes widening further behind his ridiculous glasses. "Uh, sir—High Alpha—I was just

says essence one more time, I

little more of

my lips

his hands up to shield his face.

is the only thing keeping me calm. I can’t let it be contaminated by the

smell her directly if you hadn’t scared her off, Fenris says,

the pillow’s surface, erasing any trace of Thom’s scent. The gesture feels ridiculous even as I do it, but I can’t stop myself. Once satisfied, I place

I bark at the

room sits on the opposite side of the lodge—a deliberate choice on my part,

about their duties. Each time we pass a pack member, they spare a curious glance at Thom before curling their lips in disgust. One even growls low in

Interesting.

I ask, nodding toward

looks? Yes, High Alpha. Spellbloods aren’t

"Why?"

in this region consider our practices heresy against the Goddess. They teach their packs that we’re unnatural. Makes

"Stupid belief," I grunt.

in Thom is immediate. His posture straightens, and he scurries closer to my side, eyes wide with

goes back centuries, but it’s based on misunderstanding. Magic is just