Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 107: Grace: Creeping Dread

Bun screeches with unholy glee as her limbs morph and multiply—six insect legs sprouting where toddler legs should be, skittering across the stone floor at a speed no two-year-old should possess. Her laughter echoes off the cave walls, high and piercing and just a little bit wrong.

Under normal circumstances, I’d be having a freakout over a cute little toddler turning into something adjacent to the most unholy creature on this planet. But my brain’s elsewhere.

"Watch it!" Jer shouts as Bun darts between his legs, sending him sprawling face-first into the dirt. "Sara, control your monster!"

Sara doesn’t look up from her book. "She’s not my monster. She’s everyone’s monster."

"Then everyone should help!" The younger kid scrambles up, brushing dirt from his shirt.

Ron flips a page, leaning against the far wall. He’s reading an old hardback with faded letters, so I have no idea what the story is. "You’re the one who gave her sugar."

"I did not!"

"You absolutely did." Sara’s voice drips with disdain as she finally looks up. "I watched you slip her those candy wrappers."

"That was yesterday!"

"Sugar has a half-life of forever in Bun," Ron mutters.

The bickering continues. Words bounce off the cave walls, amplifying the chaos until it’s a physical presence in the room. I stand in the middle of it all, watching Bun zoom by with too many eyes blinking from her forehead.

It should feel normal. Almost comforting in its familiarity—the way chaos becomes routine when you live with children who can sprout wings and tails and limbs at will.

But something’s off.

I can’t place it. The noise is the same. The children are the same. Even Caine, who’s inserted himself into our weird family unit with surprising ease, is behaving normally—catching Jer before he trips again, stopping Bun from licking a suspicious patch on the floor.

in your mouth," he says, scooping her up effortlessly, apparently unphased when she resembles a

wrongness. The sensation creeps through my skin, settling deep into my bones, and it’s hard to breathe. I cross my arms, pressing

Nothing helps.

get up

for the source of the dread. It’s not

a deeper breath, but my

Danger’s coming.

harder against my sides, trying to interpret the warning misfiring through my system. It’s like trying to read Morse code

few minutes while managing the chaotic energy of the kids. This time, his gaze lingers. The slight furrow between his brows

cat ears and whiskers alongside her extra eyes—to Ron, who accepts the wriggling bundle with practiced ease. Caine crosses the room in a few long strides, his presence cutting through

"Grace?"

my veins. I reach for his shirt sleeve, my fingers pinching the fabric with the

breath catches. His pupils dilate, stormy gray darkening further as his gaze drops to where my fingers connect with his shirt. The

us is still so strong, a physical tug that makes every nerve ending light up with awareness. But the unease coiling in my stomach can’t

sleeping alcove, away from the kids. His footsteps

in, close enough I smell his scent—warm, dark, distinctly Caine. His breath fans against my hair as he bends toward me, and he steps a

different unease now, one where I’m pretty sure he’s misunderstood why I dragged him with me. If I move even a millimeter closer, I’m pretty sure he’s going to throw the no touching

I try to defuse the strange atmosphere he’s brought with him. "Something bad. I can feel it, I think.

shoulders square. His jaw sets. In an instant, he shifts from the man who

or ask for evidence I don’t

My heart melts.

sharpened to

own vagueness. "I don’t know. I just feel it. Here." I press a hand against my sternum,

cave, no longer focused on me. He’s in a different world in his head, doing alpha things. "Is it

about Lyre and the others. I’m not sure. I just