Chapter 18: Grace: Pillow
The next morning dawns with somber silence and a pile of bodies in front of the main lodge.
Alpha’s is on top for everyone to see, but it’s the sheer number that makes me want to vomit every time I look out the window. I was right when I thought the Lycan King was a serial killer. He instigated a riot and caused the death of… how many? Twenty? Thirty?
He’s a madman.
And I still don’t understand why he did it.
Alpha’s dead. So is Beta. I don’t know where Rafe is, but I did see Andrew this morning, limping as he helped gather the bodies.
The door creaks. I whirl around, heart in my throat, expecting the mass murderer in question to be standing there.
A red-haired Lycan stands in the doorway, the same one who smirked at my predicament last night. His posture is formal, almost stiff. “Caine thought these might fit you.” He extends a stack of fabric.
I don’t move to take it, watching him with suspicion. Caine must be the Lycan King’s name, but that’s just an assumption. It could be any of them.
After standing there for a solid ten seconds, he sighs and walks inside, not bothering to ask for permission as he brushes by me. He places them on the bed before backing away with measured steps. “There’s a bathroom through that door if you’d like to freshen up.”
I already know that. It isn’t my first time in the main lodge’s guest quarters, though I’ve never stayed in them overnight. It’s interesting, though, that he’s so concerned about me. Bringing me clothes, urging me to shower?
He—and his kin—massacred my adoptive pack. The Lycan King himself bound me with rope before dragging me to this place.
It’s strange. So strange.
The door clicks shut behind the red-haired Lycan and I sigh, heading to the bed to inspect what he brought.
Shirts, blouses, jeans, and slacks. I guess so I can pick whatever I’m most comfortable with? There’s a pair of sneakers underneath them all, black with rose gold accents, and they look brand new. No socks, though. Or underwear. And yet there’s a bra, though a quick glance at the tag says it’s a little too big, both in bust and cup.
A soft thump outside the door reminds me I’m trapped in here, with a guard stationed in the hall.
This is insane. People don’t just get kidnapped by wolf shifters anymore. They don’t witness massacres, have their entire city get taken over, or get claimed by the king. This isn’t a movie, or a book. It’s my life.
As a normal human, I would be worrying about college and my future. As a human in a wolf pack, my life is already different from other people—but not this different.
I grab the plain black t-shirt and a pair of dark jeans from the pile. Simple, comfortable, and not tainted by the events of last night. Perfect for whatever nightmare awaits me next.
The bathroom door’s lock clicks into place, but I test it three times. A flimsy barrier between me and whatever guards lurk outside, but it’s something. The sound of running water fills the space as I turn the shower on full blast.
Steam rises, fogging the mirror. My reflection blurs, and for a moment, I see the ghost of who I used to be—Alpha’s daughter, Rafe’s girlfriend, part of a pack. Now what am I? A prisoner? A prize?
Who fucking knows. Enlightening me doesn’t seem high on anyone’s priority list.
The hot water stings my skin, but I keep it quick. No time to contemplate my situation under the spray. My muscles ache from being bound, throat still tender from… everything.
The thought of putting on dirty underwear makes my skin crawl, so I wash them by hand in the sink. Soap suds swirl down the drain as I scrub them clean, along with my bra. Both items end up hanging over the shower rod to dry.
My long, wet hair goes into a messy bun, where it’ll take forever to dry—but at least it won’t soak my shirt. The only towel in the bathroom was a hand towel. It is what it is.
Comfortable, dressed, and clean—at least as clean as soap and scrubbing hard can do, though it feels like everyone’s deaths will forever stain my skin—I open the door to my jail cell.
A scream tears from my throat before I can stop it. The Lycan King lounges on his side, on my bed, like he owns it—which, technically, he probably does now. But that’s not what makes my blood run cold.
He’s holding my pillow to his face and sniffing it.
“What are you—why are you—what are you doing
Outrage outweighs fear in this absurd moment, as I clutch the doorknob and stare into the eyes of this murderous stranger.
His cold gaze slowly lifts to mine as he takes a deep whiff.
My fingers flex and curl at my sides. The urge to snatch my pillow from his grasp wars with the instinct to stay perfectly still and keep from antagonizing a killer. And worse than either is the part of me wanting to get closer and sniff him back, bury myself in that cologne-ad scent of his.
What am I thinking? The man’s a murderer. What does it say about me, when my brain can be so obsessed with his beauty while the evidence of his misdeeds is literally piled outside this building?
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