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.

scooping her up effortlessly, apparently unphased when

it’s hard to breathe.

Nothing helps.

swear, if you don’t get up

abandoned furniture while my mind races, searching for the source of the dread. It’s not a vision. Not a voice. Not a clear warning or sign. Just a feeling—insistent and

a deeper breath, but my lungs refuse to

Danger’s coming.

misfiring through my system. It’s like trying to read Morse code without

Caine’s eyes find mine again. He’s been glancing over every few minutes while managing the chaotic energy of the kids. This time, his gaze

who accepts the wriggling bundle with practiced ease. Caine crosses the room in a few long

"Grace?"

veins. I reach for his shirt sleeve, my fingers pinching the fabric with the barest pressure—careful to avoid skin contact. It’s a whisper of a touch, barely

as his gaze drops to where my fingers connect with

a moment, I almost forget the warning thrumming through my body. The pull between us is still so strong, a physical tug that makes every nerve ending light up with awareness. But the unease coiling in my

sleeping alcove, away from the kids. His footsteps

breath fans against my hair as he bends toward me, and he steps a little too

where I’m pretty sure he’s misunderstood why I dragged him with me. If I move even a millimeter

voice tight with tension as I try to defuse the strange atmosphere he’s brought with him. "Something bad. I can feel

is immediate. The heat in his eyes doesn’t exactly vanish, but it transforms, hardening into something else entirely. His shoulders square.

as paranoia or ask for

My heart melts.

asks, voice sharpened to

Here." I press a hand against my sternum, where the heaviness sits. "Like something’s about

on me. He’s in a different world in his head, doing alpha

Lyre and the others. I’m not