Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 109

Chapter 109: Grace: At the Campground

“This is it,” I say, pointing through the windshield as we pull into the campsite. Lyre’s fifth-wheel camper sits right where we left it, nestled against the backdrop of beautiful woods.

When we pulled in the first time, it looked beautiful and free.

Today, it looks… ominous.

Perspective is everything, I guess.

“Is something wrong?” Caine asks, his voice rumbling through the truck. The kids are all quiet, even Bun. They understand danger in ways no child should.

I shake my head, but the skin at the nape of my neck prickles. “It looks fine.”

But it doesn’t feel fine.

The camper sits undisturbed. No broken windows. No kicked-in door. Not a single sign of intrusion. And yet… something heavy hangs in the air. A pressure against my chest. A whisper just beyond hearing. My fingers twist into the fabric of my jeans.

“Let’s get the kids inside,” Caine says, steel-eyed as he scans the tree line. He’s felt it too. Or he’s just naturally suspicious.

“Finally!” Jer mumbles, unbuckling himself from the middle seat and following me out the door. “I have to pee so bad my eyeballs are floating.”

Okay, maybe they aren’t as freaked out as I thought they were.

“Gross,” Sara mutters as she slides out of the back. Her red eyes dart toward the camper with undisguised relief; she’s definitely more tense than the younger boy.

Ron, of course, is as teenage-stoic as ever as he grabs Bun and hops down.

“Careful, guys. Stay close.”

“We know,” Sara and Jer chorus. They’re already beelining for the camper door.

Jer reaches it first, yanking the handle.

Nothing happens.

“It’s locked,” he whines, dancing from foot to foot.

“Hang on,” I say, digging in my pocket for the key Lyre gave me. “I’ve got it.”

I hand him the key, watching him slide it into the lock and turn.

No click. No give. The door remains firmly shut.

“Let me,” Sara pushes forward, her braid swinging as she grabs the handle and rattles it with surprising force for a nine-year-old. “It’s stuck.”

“Maybe it’s the wrong key?” Ron suggests, shifting Bun to his hip.

“No, this is definitely it.”

“Let me try.” Ron steps forward, adjusting Bun on his hip.

He grabs the handle, yanking with more strength than either of the younger kids could muster. Nothing. The door remains stubbornly shut, like it’s been welded closed.

Bun leans forward in Ron’s arms, reaching out her chubby hands toward the door. Before I can stop her, she starts banging her tiny fists against the metal surface, making hollow thumping sounds.

“Bun, honey, that’s not going to—” I start, but the look on her face stops me. It’s cute, with her giant eyes narrowed in concentration.

Never mind. Keep banging. It’s adorable.

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