Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 52: Grace: Muffin

Lyre was right.

Fenris hides under the dinette table as I vacuum black fur off the daybed comforter. I’d tried to kick him out when I woke up to a furry, dead weight on my feet, but he’s ultimately too heavy to drag out the door.

The vacuum roars as I attack another patch of black fur. Every swipe feels like a tiny rebellion against the wolf—against Caine—against this whole ridiculous situation. If I can’t control anything else in my life, at least I can eliminate this evidence of unwanted company.

A pathetic whimper sounds from behind me, followed by the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a tail against the camper’s floor. I refuse to turn around. Fenris might look like an oversized puppy right now, but he’s not. He’s a full-grown wolf, and he knows exactly what he did wrong.

I shut off the vacuum with more force than necessary. The sudden silence feels accusatory.

"You should get dressed." Lyre doesn’t look up from her phone, just sips her coffee, her rainbow hair catching the morning light through the windows. "They’ll be here soon."

My stomach drops, and I groan. "Do I have to?"

Last night’s dreams flash through my mind—fragments of nightmares where I was locked in a stone tower, my blonde hair grown long like Rapunzel’s, watching the world through a tiny window. But worse than those were the other dreams—the ones where Caine’s hands weren’t dragging me away but pulling me close, his mouth not speaking threats but...

Heat crawls up my neck.

"Unless you want to greet the Lycan King in your pajamas." Lyre sounds utterly unconcerned. "Which, honestly, might be a power move."

I’m not sure how pajamas equal power, but I grab one of Lyre’s old band t-shirts and a pair of stretchy shorts and take them with me to the bathroom. Five minutes later, I’m back out, second-guessing the shorts. But my jeans are dirty, and Lyre’s don’t fit.

"Weren’t we supposed to go to—" I stop, frowning at Fenris. "You know, away?"

Lyre finally looks up, her slitted eyes unreadable. "It would just be a waste of money at this point."

"What?"

"Gas. Food. Lodging." She ticks off each item on her fingers. "All expensive. And for what? He’s not going to let you go so easily."

Ugh.

I’m not sure why Caine’s even hunting me down, but after last night, it’s pretty clear he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

Maybe he thinks I’m trying to take over the Blue Mountain Pack or something. Taint it with half-human, half-shifter babies? He seems pretty obsessed with bringing up my relationship to Rafe, and now he’s worried about Andrew, too.

"That makes sense," I mumble.

"What does?"

purists, you know? They don’t like it when humans mix with their pack. Even before everything

eyebrows bunching together. She seems concerned more than interested. Maybe she’s worried about me. "Okay.

fiddle with the ends of my hair, noticing how some strands are lighter than others. "I’m thinking Caine’s worried I’ll try to...

a lot of sense to Lyre, who only has bits and pieces of my backstory. "Rafe’s the new alpha of the pack," I add helpfully

She nods slowly. "Okay..."

purity, right? So it makes sense

me feel

just a working

would he think you’re trying to take over a pack you’re

my pillow. She’s right. It makes no sense, putting me directly back at square one. Why am I getting chased

Fenris huffs.

him absently, running my fingers through my hair with enough force to make my scalp sting. "I just don’t get

you get good grades in

non sequitur catches me off guard.

face remains blank. "In school. Were

I did

Then it’s just willful

I can ask what she means, three sharp knocks rap against the door. Fenris lays his head on his

the couch and bounces to her feet, all without spilling a drop of coffee. "Breakfast’s here," she announces,

space. Their hulking figures block out most of the morning light, and Lyre seems

open—I can see Andrew cleaning up his camp site. The tent’s still up, and

no way you all fit in that tent together," Lyre says, plucking a to-go container of bacon out of

Jack-Eye says, balancing more white boxes. "Andrew and

he must be the other person outside. I wonder if they got

the counter, opening each container as he does so. White toast,

the sight, but I’ll wait to get my plate.

she sees the French

words mortally wounded him. "Mademoiselle. French toast is the best

counters, putting eggs on her plate. "Bread that’s been dunked in eggs and milk until it’s

elevated to a higher form of existence." Jack-Eye points at her with a plastic fork. "The way the custard

makes a gagging noise. "Just say what it is. Snotty egg

frowns. "Are you

Lyre says, unfazed.