Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 101: Grace: Domesticity

A soft scuffling sound pulls me from sleep. I blink against the dimness, my eyes adjusting to the cave’s weak morning light.

It’s the same as its evening light, just whatever’s being given by the stringed lights across the walls. It just feels darker because waking should feel bright and sunny, not dim and... well, cave-like.

Sara’s crawled from her little nest to the edge of the alcove, peering out to the main part of the cave. She slept with her hair in braids, and they’re a mess, half-fallen off her head with large strands of hair floating in every which direction.

"Owen?" she whispers, too loud to be an actual whisper.

"He’s not here." Jer sits by his rumpled blankets, knees pulled tight to his chest. He seems very vacant for a kid full of energy. Yesterday, he couldn’t stop talking; today, he’s... monotone.

I try to sit up but discover I’m pinned. Bun’s tiny body is wrapped koala-style around my torso, her face buried so deeply into my neck I can barely even feel her warm breath puffing against my skin. It’s just there.

Both chubby hands are limp with the relaxation of deep sleep.

How do I get out of this situation?

"Bun," I whisper, gently stroking her back. "I need to get up."

She makes a sleepy noise of protest and burrows deeper, her tiny arms tightening with surprising strength.

"Come on, Bun-Bun. Breakfast time."

"Nooooo," she mumbles, clinging tighter. Her little fingers dig in like claws.

A shadow falls across us, and I look up to see Caine standing over me, his expression unreadable in the half-light.

"I’ll take her," he offers, reaching down.

Bun’s head snaps up, suddenly fully awake. Her eyes widen at the sight of Caine’s outstretched hands. The growl emanating from her throat sounds like absolutely nothing a toddler should make—it’s pure animal warning. She actually slaps his hand away, then presses her face back against my collarbone.

His eyebrows shoot up, but the corner of his mouth quirks. "Well, then."

He’s taking it in stride. He seems to have a soft spot for kids.

"Sorry," I mutter, struggling to sit up while keeping Bun balanced. How do moms do this? "She’s... attached."

From across the room, Ron’s scowling. Even without really looking at him, I can feel it. I’m not sure how long he’s been awake. "She used to come to me first," he mutters, just loud enough for me to hear. The hurt in his voice is barely disguised beneath teenage indifference.

his attention shifts to the others. He stands up, stretching his long limbs,

says, not unkindly. "Sitting like that

boy

sighs and crouches beside him. "Three seconds before I carry you to

stands with a

and Ron heads

she argues, though there’s no heat in her voice. "He’s always

not. Let’s eat some breakfast. Brush your hair first; you look like you

of the children—siblings, basically—Ron gets them all up, moving, and in the main living area, sitting

of her

Owen

bands out of her hair. The girl yelps every so often as his fingers comb through tangles trying to undo her braids, but she seems to be

kids. I have exactly zero experience with children; I don’t know what they eat, if they have routines, or how to read their cues. I don’t know how to

throat, sharp and sudden. I didn’t sign up for four kids overnight. I’m barely holding my own life together. And yet I’m taking on the responsibility of a toddler somehow, one who won’t stop clinging to me despite me having no idea what to do or even where her clean diapers are stored. Ron’s been the one to

behind. So they’re all mine now, but Ron is only a few years younger than me, and I have no

He’s moved to the kitchenette, standing in front of the open refrigerator with

pounds of carrots?" he asks, staring

of the question breaks

the fridge. "Carrots. There’s enough to feed

good for

brow slowly creases as he surveys its contents. "What do you even do with this many apples?" He pulls out a

fiber?" I

Sara pipes up, squeaking as Ron gets at another one of her tangles. "She takes a

there’s a lot of

how we’re supposed to

personality this morning. "Owen

sounds disgusted. Guess he’s not

produce skeptically, then shrugs. Without further commentary, he pulls out eggs, bread, and what looks like a cast iron pan. He moves with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing, cracking eggs one-handed

that there’s much—comes from extension cords strung across the ceiling. Aside from a

toaster. I’m pretty sure we can’t run them all at the same

where the extension cords lead to, but they come

the kitchen as he makes breakfast while wearing the same clothes from yesterday,

killer. Granted, his facial expressions were darker and he tended to glower every time he looked at