Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 121: Lyre: Every Girl Needs a Toy

LYRE

Aaron tastes so much better than I thought he would.

Enough for a tiny little pulse of heat to thud between my legs.

Maybe a smidgen more than tiny.

Okay, yes, I’m wet. But I’m not going to tell him that. Men don’t need their egos stroked; they grow without water or care. I’m here to prune it. Shape it into what I need.

Every girl needs a toy, and this man seems exceptionally willing. Always a plus.

Generally, I have a rule against mixing with wolves, but... well.

I saunter out of the room, humming under my breath. There’s something satisfyingly twisted about the Eurythmics in this moment. I’m pretty sure I’ve left Jack-Eye—sorry, Aaron—ready to claw through walls. I’d apologize if I felt even remotely bad about it.

I don’t, though.

He started it.

I’m just... ending it.

Or maybe beginning something new.

The wizard and the others are several doors down. A mild annoyance, as it means I can’t monitor the wizard’s arcana levels very well, but since I have a new plan... it won’t matter very much.

He’ll be topped off after the transference. Granted, he’ll need at least six hours to recover from the sudden influx. Arcane fever tends to hit these new generations of witches hard, since they’re not used to pure arcana. The type of energy they pull is muddy and inefficient.

If you see arcana as water in the air, I pull out ninety-nine percent of what’s there.

Thom? Pulls about five percent, and it’s dirty. It isn’t that he’s exceptionally bad. It’s standard for the new generation.

I knock on the boys’ room with three sharp raps. Entertainment awaits.

The door opens, and oh—well, hello there. Owen stands shirtless, his chest broad and well-defined, as expected for an angelic descendant. Water droplets cling to his collarbone. Must have just gotten out of the shower.

His silver-gray eyes flare wide when he catches my scent. He physically recoils, stepping back with genuine fear in his expression.

Delicious. He’s gotten used to having me around. Spend a little time away, and now he’s scared again.

want?" he asks, not making

angel boy. Not

one of the beds, face turned to the wall, body too rigid to be truly asleep. I can hear the shower running in the bathroom. Process of elimination tells me it’s where our jumpy

past Owen, who flattens himself against the wall rather than risk touching me. My current high makes his reaction even more amusing. Nothing like a little fear and lust cocktail to make

bothering to knock, I push open the bathroom door. Steam

the shower curtain, wet hair plastered to his forehead. Without his glasses, he’s squinting.

"Uh—Lyre? Is that you?"

Who else would

and come to my room when you’re done,"

between confusion and

clean. Shame about

door, turning back to find Owen glaring at me, arms crossed over his

protective stick up your ass might loosen if you tried having a good time once a century," I tell him, waggling my fingers

for a few seconds. Just to refresh his delicious fear response.

Huh. Weird.

wall. His chest rises and falls

earth-shattering?" I ask with feigned innocence. Of course it

the best aphrodisiac. All-natural,

teeth clench so hard I’m surprised they don’t crack, and he speaks through them with slow, painful words. "Whatever you did hasn’t left. It still feels

I frown.

Did I really...?

physical and into the arcane. Sure enough, tendrils of my magic still wrap around him like hungry little sex

Oops.

One I certainly shouldn’t be making at my age and level of mastery. Must have been

of arcana is hundreds of times more potent than physical stimulation. Having it stroke you endlessly without release would be torture. Yet here

That’s promising," I murmur, stepping

He grunts.

dancing along the waistband of his jeans, coming close to—but never quite

have to be in the room when I—"

explodes from his gritted

jerk forward, and suddenly his hands are on me—grabbing my waist, spinning me around, slamming

like he’s drowning and I’m air—desperate, sloppy, hard. There’s no artifice here, no

a man whose

one who’s thrown

It’s very different.