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

the highest throne. Loyal wolves fight to the death.

"But—"

Rogue wolves? Executed without trial. Challenges to authority? Met with swift and often deadly force.

But it’s hard to reconcile with my

him that.

Brax.

didn’t expand

it isn’t the reality of

approve," she adds, her voice softening slightly. "I’m

twist the damp towel between my hands. "Even a

injustice sometimes. Or pack law." She shrugs. "I’m not defending

tender," I protest, though the

Her eyes lower from my face to

Maybe they are. But I still can’t just... accept that people died

you ask him to do

"What? No!"

you hint at it? Tell him you wanted

"Of course not."

back, satisfied. "Then it wasn’t because of you. It was because of him. His choice. His code. You can’t take responsibility for how their life

eases. Not gone, but lighter. And that’s awful. People are

damp towel tighter between my fingers, and water drips onto the thin blanket

basically, I should just excuse massacres

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.