Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 93

Chapter 92: Grace: Awkward Space

My body reacts before my brain even notices. I scramble backward like an awkward human crab, making it a foot away before my right wrist buckles out of nowhere.

My elbow crashes into the ground.

I adjust my position, trying to make my panicked retreat look casual.

I fail.

Spectacularly.

At least if I’m judging by the look on his face.

My cheeks are hot enough to light a fire.

Caine’s hand hangs suspended between us, frozen in mid-air. His face has transformed from brow-creased concern to wide-eyed bewilderment, like I just sprouted a second head.

He’s back to concern, but now it’s the kind of concern you give a kid after they faceplant a sidewalk.

"No touching, remember?" I manage, my voice hitting soprano when it’s usually a comfortable alto.

For a long moment, he stares at his outstretched hand like it’s not even his. Then he slowly brings it back to his side.

Tension thickens between us.

"Right," he mutters. "No touching."

I pull my knees tighter to my chest, wishing I could disappear into the stone floor.

"It’s not that I don’t—" I stop, feeling my face grow even hotter. How does one say yes, I’d like you to touch me without it sounding like a perverted invitation?

So I keep my mouth shut instead of finishing my sentence.

Fated connection or not, I still feel embarrassment. And awkwardness. And like we’re a little too close to feel like strangers now—especially since his hands have literally been in my pants, which is way out of stranger territory—but still feeling as if I don’t know the man at all.

We’ve fast-forwarded through the most basic part of a relationship: getting to know each other. Like, at all.

instincts. Two: For some reason, he can manifest his wolf outside of his body. Three: His touches feel really good. Maybe too good. Four: He doesn’t like

there’s

have to

again, and his shoulders have gone rigid, and somehow I’ve

back in the hospital," I say quickly. "The energy thing, remember? Lyre

me off,

something wrong, which makes something inside my chest twist up into a spiral of anxiety. It’s hard to take a lungful of breath, and heat flushes through my scalp, making my hair prickle.

Grace." His voice isn’t really softer, but some of the edge is gone. Closer

my throat, I glance toward the alcove. At least the kids seem to have fallen asleep. It would be mortifying if they were watching all this unfold. Sara’s

desperate to change the subject before this gets any

as if shaking off the moment. "Not much to explain. They suffered the

actions might have been extreme.

my lips together. Maybe it’s better to be

* * *

but not exactly uncomfortable. The distant sound of Bun’s soft breathing from the alcove and Ron’s occasional sleep-mumbling

remains statue-still, his profile sharp against the dim light—all defined

this worse by staying

realization hits me with sudden clarity. His hand stretched out was an offering, and I scrambled away like he was

of a terrifying Lycan King having

slide closer until I’m sitting right beside him, our backs against the same wall. I don’t touch him—obeying the rule like a good girl—but I’ve closed the gap.

away. I

Fiddleback Pack

my head toward him, suddenly alert. This is it—he’s finally answering my first question about why he tore through the city like a hurricane,

"Strange how?"

his hands clench. It’s a subtle movement,

like a big deal

reality is much

be with the man. Want to press myself against him. Want

me

No.

submit to this strange connection between

it’s

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