Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 65: Grace: Cultural Differences

Lyre waits for me to calm down, awkwardly patting at my back the entire time.

When the embarrassing sobs finally subside, she disappears into the connected bathroom, only to re-appear with a damp towel. She shoves it at me. "Here. Wipe your face."

I take the towel, pressing its cool dampness against my swollen eyes. It relieves the burn, but does nothing for the crushing weight of guilt settling into my chest. I drag the cloth across my face, trying to wipe away the shame along with the tear tracks.

When I lower the towel, Lyre stands watching me, her slitted eyes narrowed. Without warning, she rakes both hands through her rainbow hair, back and forth in wild, vigorous strokes, leaving her disheveled.

She heaves a sigh so dramatic it could deflate a balloon. If she was one. "You know death is not the same for people like them, right?"

I blink, the towel still clutched in my hands. "What?"

"Shifters. Wolves." She waves a hand in a vague circular motion. "The Lycan King. Death doesn’t mean the same thing to them that it does to humans."

An inappropriate bubble of hysterical laughter hits my throat, and I swallow it back. "But they still die, Lyre. They have families. Lovers. Kids. You know?"

She perches at the edge of my bed, rubbing a few fingers against her forehead. "Look, Grace I get it. But you’re still seeing their world through human eyes."

The sense of guilt fades, buried under my brain working to understand what she’s saying. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"It means that what Caine did—" She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "It wasn’t extraordinary by their standards. Brutal? Sure. Excessive? Maybe. But unexpected? Not really."

"I mean—it’s a lot of people, Lyre. The pile of bodies was..." My voice trails off as she lifts one shoulder in a half shrug, holding a hand between us with her palm.

It’s so dismissive.

"And how do you think he became Lycan King? By asking nicely?"

opens, then closes. I’d never really thought about

says, matter-of-fact. "Especially for the highest throne. Loyal wolves fight to the death. It’s brutal,

"But—"

Challenges to authority? Met with swift

me crinkle at the movement. Her words... make sense. But it’s hard to reconcile with my own brain. I don’t recall

calling him that. He

Brax.

didn’t expand their

makes sense. But it isn’t the reality of the years

you should approve," she adds, her voice softening slightly. "I’m just saying that death is an expected consequence in

my

or justice. Even injustice sometimes. Or pack law." She shrugs. "I’m not defending it. I’m just translating the wolf mindset for your tender human

aren’t tender," I protest, though the evidence of

raises one eyebrow in a deliberate, slow movement. Her eyes lower from my face

I still can’t

to do it?"

"What? No!"

it? Tell him

"Of course not."

because of you. It was because of him. His

devil? Because somehow, the guilt eases. Not gone,

and water drips

basically, I should just excuse massacres as

made laws and prisons because your bodies are fragile and your lives are short. That’s what you grew up with. What’s familiar—all the way down

Ew.