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.

her urge to bury me six

great way to get in massive

dings, and I shift Bun to my hip

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

at

App

has to

is the laundromat. Fantastic naming sense aside, it’s clean and reasonably priced

another

Don’t worry. My eyes are

creepy guy watching me is exactly

he’s probably powerful enough to keep me safe,

to think he would

I type back quickly:

you help me if Ellie’s goons come after me

with a

Lovely.

it over as if I might find instruction manual etched into my

Sara asks, her face appearing

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

two is like asking pyromaniacs to housesit a

their enthusiasm doing nothing

curled beneath the table, raises her head and lets out a sharp bark, and I swear I can understand exactly what she’s saying: Terrible idea,

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

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

got the laundry done. But I’d kind of forgotten about it all,

life choices, courtesy

and Sara, trying

"Oops."

word hangs in the air for a split second, and I fight the urge to close my

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