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.

about this storm is affecting

the question at Sara, who tears

her nose. "It’s like...

bouncing long enough to scratch violently at his neck. "It itches," he whines, leaving

Ron, raising an

ears hurt," the teenager says gruffly, then frowns. "No,

building with each passing minute. I can smell it. Stress in shifting adolescents often ends

take them

glance out the window. "It’s storming," I point out. Of course he knows already. We all do. Kind of hard

If one of them shifts violently in

at once if needed. Better to have them where we can see them, where they have space to move,

Even if it’s wet.

mess, but at least it’s easier to clean

announce, shifting Bun to my other hip. "We’re going

Jer protests, even as his body continues to

"Now."

feet. Sara first, followed by a relieved-looking Jer. Ron hesitates, his eyes darting toward the

tell him,

"Okay."

moves

but rush into it instead. All except Bun, who Ron gently takes from my arms to help down the steps. Her small hands reach for the falling water with wonder, even as she squints in the rain, barely

to the truck, finally killing the engine I’d left running in my rush to check

turn back toward the camper,

golden retriever sits beside me, ears perked, tail wagging against the wet ground. Just... staring up at me

never approach wolves, much less Lycans. Ever. My scent—predator, alpha, danger—sends

are you doing here?"

harder. It’s strangely untouched

the shadows, a low growl rumbling from his throat. In

tail and bolting for the RV camped in the distance. I narrow my eyes, watching as it scampers

Fenris notes. It’s either stupid

betting on the

she’s spinning in circles, arms outstretched to catch

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

holding Bun’s hands as she toddles through a puddle, her bare feet splashing with childish

quietly to herself. Jer has abandoned his complaints to roll in the

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

feels... calmer now. Or maybe it’s just because

to Fenris’s dark shape as he prowls the

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

but I know

rate

my concern. Body temperature is normal. We caught the drain before it went too far.