Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 212

Chapter 212: Grace: The Great Laundry Dilemma

Somehow, "You’ll start following me tomorrow" turned into Ron asking to follow Caine today, leaving me alone with three younger children and a bleeding new-mama heart, with a side hustle of arousal thanks to Caine’s wicked little whispers in my ear, which we are not going into, thank you very much.

I’d dodged the question with all the alacrity of a gazelle under hunt (if said gazelle had four broken legs) and I don’t think my blush faded for at least fifteen minutes, but that is not the issue here, okay? Not. The. Issue.

Seriously, my own (kind of) son-slash-younger-brother just ditched me to follow his dad (???) to bring-your-son-to-work day.

The whiplash is real and my thoughts are getting seriously parenthetical. I haven’t been a mom long and now it feels like I need to worry about my child’s rent and college tuition, before I’ve even figured out my own...

Note to self: Don’t adopt older children, they grow too fast.

Bun grabs my leg, her tiny fingers latching onto my jeans as she babbles something that sounds vaguely like "Go-go-da-ma-ba" with a whole slew of other sounds and strange inflections mixed in. I have no fucking clue what she’s saying, and little rabbit ears have popped out from her dark curls, twitching frantically.

My heart melts into my freaking socks (also in low supply, now that I’m thinking about it) and I scoop her up, savoring the warm weight against my chest. At least someone still needs me and doesn’t dash off to do boring alpha things with boring alpha men. She immediately jams her face into the crook of my neck, her soft baby breath reeking of applesauce and peanut butter.

Over Bun’s head, I survey the remaining chaos—Sara and Jer are sprawled on opposite ends of the couch, their shirts decorated with a modern art masterpiece of juice, applesauce, and what I think might be chocolate.

Please let it be chocolate.

"Do either of you have any other clothes to change into?" I ask, already knowing the answer in my heart.

I know, okay? Grace Harper is not good mom material. Grace Harper did not do laundry. Laundry is like, tier one mothering instincts. Clothes are important. Grace Harper does not remember to do things like laundry when she’s on the run from weird supernatural bullshit.

All the fun stuff in this camper, and Lyre skimped on a freaking washing machine...

Would be nice about now.

Sara shakes her head as she picks at a crusty stain on her sleeve.

"Nope," Jer says, not even bothering to look at his own clothing as he grabs a cup of juice from the cupholder at the end of the couch.

Damn.

I take a deep breath, trying to assure myself everything’s fine and the world isn’t on fire. I lived here for six years. I know this pack’s territory like the back of my hand—well, at least the parts of it with roads.

was before Ellie and her urge to

the laundromat sounds like a great way to get in massive trouble, but also being naked isn’t

dings, and I shift Bun to my hip to check

located at ’Wash-N-Were’, 3047 N. Moonlight

stare at it,

the App read

has to

laundromat. Fantastic naming sense aside, it’s clean

another

My eyes are on

me is exactly what I want in

to keep me safe, but

safe. Lyre seemed to think he would step up

I type back quickly:

if Ellie’s goons come after me

reply comes, leaving me with a 50/50 chance of

Lovely.

find instruction manual etched into my palm. The surge of power I’d used to escape Ellie would sure be helpful to call

Sara asks, her face appearing out

about laundry. Any chance you two could watch Bun while I run a

Leaving Bun with these two is like asking pyromaniacs to housesit a match factory.

chime in unison, their enthusiasm

lets out a sharp

far as I can tell—emerges from its dark little kingdom, leaps gracefully onto the counter, and fixes me with a judgmental stare and a yodeling

down," I hiss at the cat, nudging it off the counter. "And you," I point at Sadie,

I got the laundry done. But I’d kind

choices, courtesy

Jer and Sara, trying to calculate just how much worse those stains could

"Oops."

a split second, and I fight the urge to close my eyes and

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