Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 103: Jack-Eye: Hooked

JACK-EYE

My left leg cramps for the fifth time in an hour. Fuck compact SUVs and their contempt for anyone over six feet tall. I shift, trying to find a position that doesn’t feel like my knees are pressed against my throat, but there’s no relief to be found in this rolling sardine can.

Dawn’s coming, with weak pink and gold fingers creeping across the lightening sky.

And we’re still on the highway.

No known destination, being driven by someone more likely to turn us into amphibians than answer questions.

We’ve been driving all night, and the mood in the car has settled from the aftermath of rage and deep sorrow into something fragile. Like if we breathe wrong, we might remember everything all over again.

In the back seat, the Blue Mountain kid’s snoring with his head pressed against the window. The sniveling wizard is asleep against his shoulder, twitching occasionally. Once he flinched so hard, his glasses flew off his face. It still didn’t wake him up, even when Owen shoved them back on.

The strange guy—an angel, or something related to one... apparently—has been awake this entire time, like he’s used to forgoing sleep for missions.

And then there’s Lyre.

One arm drapes across the steering wheel with casual confidence, the other resting against her door. Like she could drive this road with her eyes closed.

She hasn’t spoken in hours, but her lips have gone from a tight line to slightly pursed, and her eyes no longer crinkle at the corners, more relaxed as she stares ahead. There’s still the hint of simmering rage burning the air around her, but at least I’m reasonably sure she won’t set the car on fire.

I catch it again—a faint shimmer across her knuckles. A subtle glow pulsing beneath her skin when she thinks no one’s looking.

powerful. Shifters aren’t exposed to her kind of magic, but even I can recognize it’s greater than anything I’ve seen before. And it’s barely

an exit ramp, the SUV gliding smoothly

I ask, rolling my shoulders

Her voice is flat.

Damn it.

Thom’s desperate rush to the bathroom—both to rinse out his vomit-stale mouth and to use the more traditional facilities—we haven’t gotten a break

full of mortal peril if you look at

Everything about her is a contradiction—she looks soft,

what are you, exactly?" The question’s been eating at me for a while now, only stronger after I watched her walk out of that place, hands clean

to throw Caine around like she does,

Thom stirs. His eyes flutter open, landing on Lyre with an unsettling intensity. "She’s..." His voice

sounds more poetic than usual, probably because

then back to the

out on in a heartbeat. But with her, I’m... intrigued. The mystery

bridge of her nose. I hadn’t noticed them before, when we were knee-deep in blood and crisis. They’re unexpected on someone so intimidating—like finding

a bone-deep certainty that she belongs exactly where

not dead. But this feeling crawling up my spine isn’t just attraction. It’s different. Thrilling. Staring at a beautiful predator and wondering if it would be worth it to get closer,

her eyes off the road. Her tone is dry as dust, and I wonder if it would change if I told her I wanted to tear her clothes off and fuck her until

as strong as her, demanding more of

my mouth lift and aim for an answer

cold and clean between us. "You

the likes of an Echo Witch." He sounds reverent, but the kind of reverence where you’re scared you’ll