Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 125: Caine: In the Rain

CAINE

The lights flicker for the third time in as many minutes, casting strange shadows across Bun’s tear-streaked face.

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath as I bounce her on my hip. The toddler’s settled into a persistent whimper rather than full-blown screams, which is an improvement, but the damn RV is a new concern.

"Fah," Bun whispers between big sniffs.

I pace to the front of the camper, where the control panel sits mocking me with its incomprehensible display. Numbers and letters with no comprehensible logic. Grace was the one who set everything up—all I did was drive the damn thing to this godforsaken spot.

The screen flickers, then goes completely dark before lighting up again. A warning icon blinks in the corner.

Maybe it’s failing, Fenris observes helpfully.

"No shit." I shift Bun to my other hip, her small hands fisting in my shirt.

"Nuh shuh."

I dig my phone out of my pocket and dial Lyre, cursing the woman for owning this rolling death trap. The line doesn’t even ring before an automated voice cuts in: "Please try again later."

I try Jack-Eye and get the same result.

"Something’s not right about this storm," I mutter, staring at the blank phone screen.

There’s magic to it, Fenris agrees.

We’ve said the same thing at least ten times already.

My eyes drift toward the back room where Grace lies unconscious. I want nothing more than to curl around her, to guard her while she’s vulnerable. To feel her heartbeat against mine and know she’s safe. To suck in every last bit of her blueberry muffin scent, which is probably the only thing keeping me from rampaging in this tiny space.

But I can’t. Not with Bun still radiating unstable energy. Not with three other potentially volatile shifter children who could lose control at any moment. Besides, I’d just make it all worse.

This inability to touch the woman is driving me mad.

She’s breathing better, Fenris reports from where he stands guard in the bedroom doorway. Steadier.

"Good."

I turn to survey the rest of the cramped living space. The kids have fallen into an uneasy quiet, and it’s more concerning than their earlier panic. Sara sits pressed against the window, her small fingers splayed on the glass as if reaching for the storm itself. Her eyes track the lightning with unnerving focus.

Jer can’t seem to stay still. He bounces from one cushion to another, his small body vibrating with excess energy even as he mutters, "Everything feels weird. Everything feels weird," under his breath like a mantra.

The oldest does a better job of appearing calm. But I don’t miss how his head tilts up seconds before each thunderclap rings out, his body tensing in anticipation. He feels it coming.

They’re twitchier than a room full of hair-trigger pups during a blood moon.

is affecting

with you?" I direct the question at Sara, who tears her gaze

like... my skin doesn’t

at his neck. "It itches," he

Ron, raising

the teenager says gruffly, then frowns. "No, not hurt. Just...

each passing minute. I can smell it. Stress in shifting adolescents often ends up with a wild shift, though it’s never at the level of whatever happened to the

them

the window. "It’s storming," I point out. Of course he knows already. We all do. Kind of hard to miss when it’s knocking our your electronics

If one of them shifts violently in here, someone could get

of these children—or all of them at once if needed. Better to have them where

Even if it’s wet.

muddy mess, but at

shifting Bun to

Jer protests, even as

"Now."

all jerking to their feet. Sara first, followed by a relieved-looking Jer.

I tell him,

"Okay."

moves

takes from my arms

engine I’d left running in my rush to check on Grace. For a second, there’s silence

I turn back toward the camper,

golden retriever sits beside me, ears perked, tail wagging against the

less Lycans. Ever. My scent—predator, alpha, danger—sends

hell are you doing here?"

wags harder. It’s strangely untouched by

a low growl rumbling from his throat. In one fluid motion, he lunges at the retriever, teeth snapping at

the RV camped in the

It’s either

betting on

she’s spinning in

scoffs. "That was mean. He wasn’t doing anything to

hands as she toddles through a puddle, her bare feet

has abandoned his complaints to roll in the mud, giggling, though he still flinches at

good wolf. Strong pack instinct mixed with his cautious nature will do him well as an adult

now. Or maybe it’s just because

the perimeter, keeping close to Fenris’s dark shape as he prowls the

guess the electricity isn’t coming back anymore. It’s a

Grace out here, but I

rate

caught the drain before