Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 43: Grace: Scars

The campground is a little place about five miles off the highway, surrounded by trees. It’s like a sardine tin of RVs, but we’re lucky enough to have an empty spot beside ours.

Of course, it isn’t empty anymore—Andrew’s taken it. Apparently, he has a tent, too.

With all the slides extended, Lyre’s camper transforms from cramped travel mode to something that could rival a small apartment. The living area in the back boasts two plush couches and a daybed, arranged in a U-shape around a TV that looks absurdly large when you consider we are technically camping. The Wi-Fi signal from the campground is surprisingly strong, and once Lyre leaves for her mysterious errand, I spend hours browsing through her streaming accounts.

I flip mindlessly through shows I’ve never heard of, content to let a few hours slip by. She’s forbidden me from leaving the camper, warning me not to let anyone in, leaving me itching a little over the feeling of being confined. How easily I trade one form of captivity for another. At least this prison comes with Netflix. Besides, Lyre isn’t about to kill me.

I’m at least ninety percent certain, anyway. There’s always the ten percent she’s waiting for me to let my guard down before chopping me to bits, but it’s a risk I’ve already taken at this point.

The rest of my day wastes away in a blur of fictional dramas far less complicated than my life, yet riveting. As evening shadows stretch across the campground, the familiar rumble of Lyre’s truck engine announces her return. The door swings open moments later, bringing with it the savory aroma of Chinese food.

"Hungry?" Lyre asks, triumphant smile brightening her face as she holds up a paper bag heavy with takeout containers.

My stomach growls in response. I haven’t eaten since the truck stop burger. While Lyre gave me full permission to raid her pantry and fridge, it felt odd to do it while she was gone.

"I brought you something else too." She passes me a small brown paper bag.

I peer inside, finding what appears to be an artisanal jar of body butter. When I unscrew the lid, the sweet scent of coconut wafts up, rich and tropical.

"Scar treatment," Lyre explains, setting the food on the counter and beginning to unpack it. "For your back."

I freeze, the jar suspended halfway to my nose. "My back?"

"You were whipped, right?" She says it so casually, like commenting on the weather. "It’s for those scars."

Blood drains from my face. She’s never seen me shirtless. "How do you know about that?"

Lyre glances over her shoulder, expression neutral. "I saw them when I was helping you wash out the bleach. Through the gap here." She points at the back of her shirt collar. "Hard to miss."

to the bathroom, to standing bent over, head

to heal?" she asks, separating chopsticks with a

again, everything about Lyre is odd. "Overnight. It wasn’t as bad as you’d think." Of course, then there was the next

thoughtfully, her eyes never leaving mine as she passes me a container

had your wrist wrapped when we met, right? And

my wrist where Ellie had grabbed me. The bruises have faded slightly, and my wrist still hurts when I use

a whipping heal overnight," Lyre continues,

off guard. I’ve never

really that bad," I offer lamely,

enough to scar,

jar of scar cream as I poke at my lo

where wounds healed abnormally fast?" Lyre’s voice is casual, but her eyes are too sharp. She

My heart races.

think so—" I begin, then stop, remembering one. Maybe. The details are hazy. "When I was twelve, my parents died in a home

I’ve told several times. A summary of

Mom and Dad died.

Alpha picked

in those three days? That’s where it gets hazy. I remember being in the hospital, but I don’t

hurt?" Lyre asks, as if she can hear

I’ve always remembered the hospital, but I remember thinking it

I have no memory of seeing Mom

work through the timeline, and I shake my head abruptly. Whatever secret is buried there can stay there. Mom’s my mom. Dad’s my dad. Maybe we should just leave it at that.

than is necessary, pointing at my container with her chopsticks. "Eat." The word is clear, even with

dinette. The small booth offers the perfect view of the TV,

ache, even though I stopped prodding at

her multicolored hair catching