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.

Ellie and her urge to bury me

get in massive trouble, but also being naked isn’t

phone dings, and I shift Bun to my hip to

Investigate the compromised artifact located at ’Wash-N-Were’,

stare at

App

to

it’s clean

another notification

My eyes are

Yes. Perfect. A creepy guy watching me

me safe, but it doesn’t

he would step

I type back quickly:

HARPER: Will you help me if Ellie’s goons come after me

with a 50/50 chance

Lovely.

into my palm. The surge of power I’d used to escape Ellie would sure be

her face appearing

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

my mouth, and I immediately regret them. Leaving Bun with these two is like asking pyromaniacs to

chime in unison, their enthusiasm doing

her head and lets out a sharp bark, and I swear I can understand exactly what

cat—who wants to live under the sink forever as far as I can tell—emerges from its dark little kingdom, leaps

off the counter. "And you," I point

laundry done. But I’d kind of forgotten about it all, focusing instead on how awkward it felt to go

brilliant life choices, courtesy

Jer and Sara, trying to calculate just

"Oops."

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

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