Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 88: Lyre: Let’s All Calm Down

LYRE

Jack-Eye steps forward, hands raised. "Let’s all calm down."

I ignore him. "Do you want to send her back to intensive care? Because that’s what will happen if you drain her again. Energy transference isn’t a joke."

Caine’s jaw works as he processes this, his desire to touch Grace warring with his need to keep her safe. It’s almost endearing how much his instincts conflict with each other.

Finally, he moves to a cushion near Grace—close, but not touching—and sits with the stiff posture of someone expecting an attack at any moment.

"Where is Fenris?" Grace asks, leaning forward but keeping her hands to herself.

"Recuperating," Caine answers shortly. His gaze never leaves her face, drinking her in like a man dying of thirst. "He used a lot of energy."

The way his voice darkens tells me there’s more to the story, but now isn’t the time to pry. His brain’s somewhere else, I’m sure, the kind of place it shouldn’t be with children under the same roof. Thankfully, they’re in the other room.

Then his attention shifts to me and Owen.

Huh.

Maybe I’m wrong. The man’s upper brain is still working.

"What is this place?" the overbearing brute demands. "Why is Grace here?"

Grace moves so suddenly I almost don’t catch her in time. One moment she’s sitting there all wide-eyed innocence, the next her hand is reaching toward Caine’s arm with an instinctive need to comfort.

I lunge forward, smacking her hand away before contact.

"No touching!"

shock as she cradles her hand against her chest. Not that I hurt her—I’d never—but the surprise of it

me. A rumbling, guttural sound that would make most creatures soil

time to lose patience with this particular brand

flick my finger toward him—a casual gesture, like brushing away a particularly annoying insect—and the air responds instantly, condensing into a wave that

force to rattle his oversized ego. The cushions scatter around him as he slides down to the floor, his expression a spectacular blend of shock and

Poor thing. Probably contemplating which

I’m joking?" I ask, looking between Grace and Caine. "That

hangs in the

"Well—she did say no

least one of them is

on Grace. "And his—" I jab a finger toward the now-seething Lycan King, "—is overwhelming. One touch, even

at her hand like it’s suddenly foreign

intending to... Sorry,

rational thought. You don’t think, you just act, and suddenly you’re back in a hospital bed with tubes

floor, bristling with barely contained rage. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, tattoos rippling across his skin like

three seconds to explain why I shouldn’t tear your

and B:

somewhere behind me, sounding far too amused for someone who’s supposed to be blindly loyal to his

the sound might have helped. "Charming as this display of dominance is—truly, it’s riveting—there are way more important questions to

his mouth, no doubt to say something predictably threatening, when movement catches

toddler comes tearing around the corner, her face smeared with what

girl with braided hair sprints with her arms outstretched,

she hisses, reaching for

floor with the unstoppable momentum of a tiny, sauce-covered missile. Her destination is clear, and nothing—nothing—will

Olympic gymnasts would admire and lets out a bellow loud enough to shake dust from the cave ceiling.