Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 125

Chapter 125: Caine: In the Rain

CAINE

The lights flicker for the third time in as many minutes, casting strange shadows across Bun’s tear-streaked face.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath as I bounce her on my hip. The toddler’s settled into a persistent whimper rather than full-blown screams, which is an improvement, but the damn RV is a new concern.

“Fah,” Bun whispers between big sniffs.

I pace to the front of the camper, where the control panel sits mocking me with its incomprehensible display. Numbers and letters with no comprehensible logic. Grace was the one who set everything up—all I did was drive the damn thing to this godforsaken spot.

The screen flickers, then goes completely dark before lighting up again. A warning icon blinks in the corner.

Maybe it’s failing, Fenris observes helpfully.

“No shit.” I shift Bun to my other hip, her small hands fisting in my shirt.

“Nuh shuh.”

I dig my phone out of my pocket and dial Lyre, cursing the woman for owning this rolling death trap. The line doesn’t even ring before an automated voice cuts in: “Please try again later.”

I try Jack-Eye and get the same result.

“Something’s not right about this storm,” I mutter, staring at the blank phone screen.

There’s magic to it, Fenris agrees.

We’ve said the same thing at least ten times already.

My eyes drift toward the back room where Grace lies unconscious. I want nothing more than to curl around her, to guard her while she’s vulnerable. To feel her heartbeat against mine and know she’s safe. To suck in every last bit of her blueberry muffin scent, which is probably the only thing keeping me from rampaging in this tiny space.

But I can’t. Not with Bun still radiating unstable energy. Not with three other potentially volatile shifter children who could lose control at any moment. Besides, I’d just make it all worse.

This inability to touch the woman is driving me mad.

She’s breathing better, Fenris reports from where he stands guard in the bedroom doorway. Steadier.

“Good.”

I turn to survey the rest of the cramped living space. The kids have fallen into an uneasy quiet, and it’s more concerning than their earlier panic. Sara sits pressed against the window, her small fingers splayed on the glass as if reaching for the storm itself. Her eyes track the lightning with unnerving focus.

Jer can’t seem to stay still. He bounces from one cushion to another, his small body vibrating with excess energy even as he mutters, “Everything feels weird. Everything feels weird,” under his breath like a mantra.

The oldest does a better job of appearing calm. But I don’t miss how his head tilts up seconds before each thunderclap rings out, his body tensing in anticipation. He feels it coming.

They’re twitchier than a room full of hair-trigger pups during a blood moon.

Something about this storm is affecting all of them.

“What’s wrong with you?” I direct the question at Sara, who tears her gaze from the window reluctantly.

She wrinkles her nose. “It’s like… my skin doesn’t fit right.”

The younger boy stops his frantic bouncing long enough to scratch violently at his neck. “It itches,” he whines, leaving red marks on his skin.

I look to Ron, raising an eyebrow.

“My ears hurt,” the teenager says gruffly, then frowns. “No, not hurt. Just… pressure.”

Their agitation is building with each passing minute. I can smell it. Stress in shifting adolescents often ends up with a wild shift, though it’s never at the level of whatever happened to the toddler.

Let’s take them outside, Fenris suggests.

I glance out the window. “It’s storming,” I point out. Of course he knows already. We all do. Kind of hard to miss when it’s knocking our your electronics and turning kids into feral beasts.

Better out there than tearing this place apart, he counters. If one of them shifts violently in here, someone could get hurt. Or worse—they could go for Grace.

Between us, we can dominate any of these children—or all of them at once if needed. Better to have them where we can see them, where they have space to move, than bottled up in this tiny tin can.

Even if it’s wet.

They’re going to be a muddy mess, but at least it’s easier to clean up than blood.

“Come on,” I announce, shifting Bun to my other hip. “We’re going outside.”

“But it’s raining,” Jer protests, even as his body continues to twitch.

“Now.”

The command has them all jerking to their feet. Sara first, followed by a relieved-looking Jer. Ron hesitates, his eyes darting toward the hall.

“She’s fine,” I tell him, relying on Fenris’s words.

“Okay.”

Ron finally moves toward the door.

Rain pours in sheets as we step outside, immediately soaking through our clothes. I’m surprised when the kids don’t protest but rush into it instead. All except Bun, who Ron gently takes from my arms to help down the steps. Her small hands reach for the falling water with wonder, even as she squints in the rain, barely able to keep her eyes open.

I take a moment to trudge through the mud to the truck, finally killing the engine I’d left running in my rush to check on Grace. For a second, there’s silence but for the rain and thunder.

When I turn back toward the camper, I freeze.

It keeps coming back, Fenris notes. It’s either stupid or there’s something strange about it.

Her heart rate is stable,

Fenris says, sensing my concern. Body temperature is normal. We caught the drain before it went too far. Not like the night you tried to mate with her.

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