Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 111: Jack-Eye: You’re Not Special

JACK-EYE

Three hours of silence is my limit. I fiddle with the volume dial just to give my hands something to do. Something like not sliding through the messy bun Lyre’s created out of her rainbow-colored hair.

"So... sleep. That’s still a thing, right?"

She doesn’t look at me. "I’m fine."

Okay.

The temperature in the car drops ten degrees with those two words. Not literally—though with Lyre, you never know. I clear my throat and lean back in my seat.

She’s been like this ever since Grace called. That girl has a talent for finding trouble, and it rivals Caine’s talent for making enemies. The fact they’re bound together is cosmic irony.

She seems sweet, though. Sweet enough to keep a feral witch like Lyre loyal to the girl.

Am I jealous? Maybe a little.

"Where are we headed, anyway?" I keep my voice casual, fishing for any reaction beyond her stone-faced focus on the road.

But it’s not Lyre who answers, damn it.

"We’re circling back toward where we started, actually." Thom’s voice pipes up from the back seat, so eager it makes my molars ache. "The ley lines around the Fiddleback territory are fascinating—they twist in ways I’ve never seen before. The mana flow creates these... these beautiful rivers of light that intersect and diverge. I can actually see them now, which explains how my tracking works. It’s like the signature leaves ripples in the—"

I grit my teeth so hard I’m surprised they don’t crack. I don’t need a lecture from the wizard-who-couldn’t. Especially not when he’s answering for her like they’re some kind of team now.

looks at her—like she hung the fucking moon and stars—makes my skin crawl. Like

nerding out to this bizarre magic

answers without emotion. "Someone’s hair was on the body. We’re

in the strand for me to track, though." He sounds like a confused fucking puppy. Not a brain cell

mirror, then back to

"ahh" sound, disappointment dripping from that single syllable, and something in me

kissed you because you’re special?" I ask, sarcasm coating every syllable, with

throat and leans back

understand what she did—some weird magical energy transfer that required mouth-to-mouth contact, I guess—but

the rearview again, catching Thom’s slumped posture. Under her breath, just barely

blooms in my chest. No interest, then. No

want." She says it casually, once again focused

My heart trips.

a wilted plant of a

hard to explain. You’ll get it once

fleeting victory crumbles. I turn toward

ley lines like it’s pillow talk. Meanwhile, I’m

jealous. I don’t get possessive. I’m the guy who knows how to separate business and pleasure. The

grabbed my wrist and how good she smells. She smells

but once it’s in your lungs, it stays there. Warm. Familiar. Like

her scent hints, which means I’ve been battling it off and on for

want a hand job. You’ve