Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 146: Grace: Zero to Sexty

Caine tries to jerk his hand back, but I hold on, my fingers tightening around his wrist. No way I’m letting him pull away now. The strange current between us is back, and I’m determined to figure it out, damn it.

Otherwise I can’t hold Bun.

"It’s too dangerous," he snaps, but his resistance is already faltering. Though his muscles remain taut with tension, he stops trying to break free of my grip.

"I’m never going to learn to control whatever this is if you don’t touch me," I say, my voice far steadier than the lack of certainty in my head. I can feel it, but it doesn’t mean I’ll be able to control it. Still, I want to try. "You can’t protect me by keeping me in the dark about my own power, Caine."

He groans, dropping his head forward until his dark hair falls across his face. "Look at yourself, Grace. You’re exhausted. Weak. You need rest, not... experiments."

"I feel fine right now." I straighten my spine, trying to look stronger than I probably appear. "You just need to stop if I start looking... bad."

A corner of his mouth twitches up despite everything; I can see it, even from this angle. "You’ll never look bad."

I blink, momentarily thrown off balance. "Are you seriously flirting with me in the middle of this conversation?" I push indignation into my voice even as I fight the smile threatening to form. Butterflies dance in my belly.

He looks up with a sigh, but his mouth is still half-quirked in amusement. "You’re killing me, Grace."

Goddess. Every time he says my name...

Dear and darling do it, too.

any time he looks at me like that, I’m drowning

one killing me, though?" I counter, trying

low in his throat. It doesn’t help the throbbing down

to talk

around, my heart racing as I slide my hand against his. Even the slide of his callused palm against mine sends frissons of excitement through my

and not the throbbing between my thighs. This time it’s easier to feel. Not just sense,

concentrate harder.

is, I need to grab it, control it. But it’s like trying to hold water—completely fluid, passing through my mental "hands" no

closed eyelids, I see it—a glowing golden thread. No, not one thread—countless threads, pulsing and alive, connecting our joined hands. I can see our fingers, or

out, stroking the threads with

the sound rumbling

The golden threads remain visible in my mind’s eye even as I focus on Caine’s face. His jaw is clenched,

darken, pupils

intensity he exudes

The words die in my throat as he

the bed, his weight pressing me down into the

on that anymore. Not with his lips devouring mine, his tongue pushing into my mouth with bruising urgency. His hands move down my body with frantic need, finding my breasts and squeezing them through my shirt, fingers digging in hard enough to make me gasp against

to wrest his off; we’re a tangled mess of kissing

Except it doesn’t.

does, but it

his shirt off and grab at his other hand, shoving it down