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

unkindly. "Sitting like that gets

younger boy

seconds before I carry you

Jer stands

corner, knees to chest, and Ron heads over to ruffle her hair. "Come on. Owen will be back

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

some breakfast. Brush your hair first; you look like

the main living area, sitting in a semi-circle for breakfast. Sara’s got

snatching the brush out of her hand. "You didn’t even take them out of

yawns. "Sorry. Owen always does

as his fingers comb through tangles trying to undo her braids, but she

with children; I don’t know what they eat, if they have routines, or

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

only a few years younger than me, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to teach a girl how to brush her hair. How

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

there twelve pounds of carrots?" he

of the question breaks through my

"Carrots. There’s enough to feed a

they’re good

the tall, freestanding cabinet Owen’s repurposed as the cave’s pantry. His brow slowly creases as he surveys its contents. "What do you even do with this many apples?" He pulls out a bag filled with small red apples. "There’s three more bags in

fiber?"

Ron gets at another one of her tangles. "She takes a few bites and then throws them

So there’s a lot of waste

wonder how we’re supposed

the first sign of his usual personality this morning. "Owen calls

disgusted. Guess

like a cast iron pan. He moves with the confidence of someone who knows exactly

in this place—not that there’s much—comes from extension cords strung across the ceiling. Aside from a few lights, most everything running

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

idea where the extension cords lead to, but they come out of a

as he makes breakfast while wearing the same

of serial killer. Granted, his facial expressions were darker and