Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 97: Grace: One Tiny Fist

My back aches against the cave wall, but I don’t dare move. Bun’s warm weight anchors me where I am, her slight body rising and falling with each breath, rabbit ears occasionally twitching against my stomach. I’m not even sure when they appeared. When Caine was done explaining how chess was something his father taught him as a child—in an effort to teach strategic thinking for battle, which made his confession seem a little less lighthearted than it was—I’d looked down, and there they were. Little white rabbit ears.

And a tiny puff coming out of her diaper. I can’t smell anything, so I’m about seventy-five percent certain it’s a little puffy rabbit tail and not... something else.

She’s completely conked out, one tiny fist clutching my shirt like I might disappear if she lets go.

An inch away—literally just one inch—Caine sits with his back against the same wall, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed. He’s not sleeping. I can tell by the rhythm of his breathing. Too measured. Too controlled. The space between us pulses with unspoken tension, an invisible boundary neither of us wants to breach.

Or, more accurately... one we want to breach, yet can’t.

I shift slightly, and my shoulder nearly grazes his. My entire body goes rigid, muscles locking up as if he’s poison. Or a live, sparking power line.

This is ridiculous. We’ve had sex (well... partly), but now I’m terrified of our shoulders bumping? And our conversation’s come to a complete, grinding halt.

Maybe I’ve made everything worse with my boundaries. Maybe I should’ve just let whatever this is between us unfold naturally instead of trying to control it. But every time I think about giving in, there’s something inside me begging to stick to it.

I glance at his profile in the dim light. There’s stubble covering his jaw, darker than this morning. His eyelashes are long and lush, and instead of envy my first thought goes to eventual children and if they’ll have his eyelashes.

Now I get it, what he said about imagining a life together. Kids. The whole shebang and probably the little dog too.

Well—no, nix the dog. No cats, either. Wolf shifters don’t do pets.

Dinner, yes. Pets? Not so much.

And yet, despite me throwing down rules and needs and confusing him with where my heart’s at, he’s still here. Staying. His shoulder next to mine, respecting my space but not continuing distance.

My heart thumps hard.

No psychopathic serial killer would treat a girl like this. Then again, Ted Bundy got married—no. No more negative thoughts.

What happened with Brax and the others wasn’t murder. It was pack justice.

on it is only going to keep me

waking and dreaming when shuffling footsteps jerk me back into fully

emerges from the darkness of the sleeping alcove, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. His dark hair stands up in tufts, making him look

foot in the air when he sees us, his eyes widening

across his face. He shifts uncomfortably, glancing between me, Caine, and

a little hurt—makes me wonder if I’ve stepped into a role that wasn’t mine

into my lap and fell

to bed," he offers, reaching out

Bun’s shoulder before she stirs, her face scrunching up in immediate distress. Her tiny hand tightens in my shirt as

cries out, her voice thick with sleep but unmistakably adamant. Her entire body

tighten around her, trying to give her a sense of security, soothe her back into sleep. "Shh, it’s okay," I murmur, one hand stroking her back in gentle

performed some kind of magic trick. The rejection in his eyes hits me harder than I expected. This isn’t a

"Leave her."

through the silence, low and firm, without a hint of aggression but filled with quiet authority. His eyes

subtle but unmistakable—the way his shoulders pull back, chin lifting slightly. A

away a

where she is," Caine says, his tone softer, but

heavier in my arms. "Actually, I should probably put her to bed properly." Struggling to my feet without jostling her is a new skill, one I’m going

small victory, but I’ll

me, close enough for me to feel the heat radiating from his body without actually touching him. He doesn’t offer to help, doesn’t try to take Bun—he just stands there, a silent presence at my back, until I navigate toward

just piles of blankets, Sara and Jer

fingers from my shirt. She whimpers, her face crumpling at the loss

from her forehead. "I’m

her pulls at me in ways I can’t explain—a fierce protectiveness I’ve never felt before. I tuck the blanket around her tiny form, marveling at how someone so small could

I murmur, leaning down to press a light

wait, watching as her breathing evens out again, her grip gradually loosening as she slips deeper into

sure she won’t wake, I carefully extract my finger and rise