Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 126: Grace: Waking to Chaos (I)

Sharp, digital beeps wake me out of what feels like a molasses-like sea of sleep.

My eyes are too heavy to pry open, but I manage anyway.

I’m not in the camper.

Panic is immediate, freezing every muscle. It was already hard to move, and now it’s impossible.

Two feet, clad in black flip-flops and wearing an anklet with a bell, chiming sweetly with every step, pace toward me. They’re men’s feet, making the anklet seem so much more out of place. It’s on a delicate golden chain, and I wonder how it doesn’t snap every time he walks.

"Oh, dear. You aren’t supposed to be here."

His voice slides over me, soft like silk and dripping with the sweetness of honey, but with the faint, smokey sound of a man trying to seduce you in the dark.

I’m already on guard.

The casual amusement in his tone wraps around me with unsettling familiarity, as if we’re old friends reuniting after a brief separation. Far too intimate.

I try to sit up, pushing against whatever invisible force pins me down. My muscles strain against nothing and everything at once. The effort makes my vision swim, black spots dancing.

And then the world... glitches.

marble to an infinite expanse of stars, then to

seasick, and

to focus on his

Big mistake.

cycle through impossible colors—violet blending into gold, then abyssal black, then something which

tone shifts with each blink, his hair growing and shortening and changing texture constantly. Beautiful, but the kind where my brain hurts

He tilts his head, and the movement leaves tracers in my vision. "The Order is watching

up, and his lips hover dangerously near mine—not quite touching, but

"Chaos really likes you..."

in my chest, a spark of heat spreading outward in a sudden rush. And inside the heat, something else responds—not me, but something within me. It snarls, the sound reverberating through my bones without making a sound anyone

his almost-touch, my spine arching with sudden strength I didn’t know I had. The movement feels instinctual, primal—and strangely,

Caine.

the connection, fierce and primal and alive in

delight as he watches me. "Fated wolves are

The amusement on his ever-changing face is the only constant, though it also flickers and changes with his rise and lowering of his cheekbones and the shape

impossible conversation in an impossible place. My voice doesn’t match

rattles me more than panic would

this place. But I am, and strangely, the air feels wonderful—cool and clean, filling my lungs and easing the

before shifting away. He sports a giant, bushy beard now, and heavy brows. His nose wrinkles as he squints at me. "Though we

disappointment in his voice sends heat rushing to

the weight holding down my body, it feels like it’s holding onto this space. He clicks his tongue, the