Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 193

Chapter 193: Grace: Telepathy Failure

Settling into our little corner of Blue Mountain is not as easy as I thought it would be.

For one, Caine refuses to leave.

For two, having three more burly Lycans in Lyre’s camper has stretched its occupancy to max limit.

For three, every time I look out the damn window there’s at least five Blue Mountain shifters staring at us.

Considering how little traffic this place gets, it’s very clear they’re here to snoop. Which means my whole don’t let people know you’re my mate plan is going fucking swimmingly, on top of being incredibly worried the children will be mistreated by the assholes outside.

Funny—when I left here, I was still feeling guilty and terrible over all the deaths the Lycan King brought here.

Now I’m feeling like it wasn’t enough.

Strange how perspective changes things, though I’m more than a little worried my humanity’s going astray.

Sara leans over to cup her hand by my ear and stage-whisper, loud enough for literally everyone to hear, "Why are they all here, anyway?"

"I have no idea," I mutter back, shooting Caine a milk-curdling glare.

The three Lycans standing at attention before their king are vaguely familiar; at least one of them stood guard outside my door for a time.

But what’s far more concerning than their vague familiarity is how they keep swiveling their heads in my direction. And every single time, their nostrils flare wide enough to host a whole farm of honeybees.

They’re scenting me.

Repeatedly.

If I were actually an ordinary human girl and not raised by this pack, their behavior would rank somewhere between disturbing and call-the-police territory. But I’ve spent six years in the Blue Mountain Pack. I know how they catalog their world—sight second, sound third, and scent always first.

This doesn’t make it less nerve-wracking, though.

Jer, who apparently missed the day they taught children about indoor voices and social awareness, leans across Sara’s lap and announces at full volume, "Why do they keep staring at you like that? Shouldn’t they be bowing in front of their queen?"

The blood drains from my face so fast I go light-headed.

Caine’s lips twitch upward at one corner, actually amused by this catastrophe. All three of his Lycan goons go rigid, their eyes widening. It would be amusing on their grim, scarred faces full of disapproval and curiosity—if it didn’t make my entire, brilliant plan shatter into tiny little pieces.

Sara, bless her oblivious heart, doesn’t catch a single nuance of this disaster as she hisses back, "Maybe they’re rude and he’s going to chop off their heads. Just shut up and watch."

Bun, meanwhile, focuses on her mushy cookie as she sits in my lap, content to ignore the world for the tiny pieces of M&M she’s determined to dig out with her fingernails.

And Ron is pretending all of us don’t exist, his face buried in one of Lyre’s books where he’s sitting on the couch. He’s the smartest of us all.

I sit frozen in the middle of the dinette as the three Lycans swivel toward me in perfect unison, their expressions a mixture of confusion and dawning horror. I shoot Caine my most desperate fix this right now glare, finishing it off with slightly widened eyes and a tiny head shake in their direction.

The man mercifully smooths his face into a blank royal mask. He clears his throat, immediately recapturing his subordinates’ attention.

Then Caine, King of the Lycans and apparent champion of the most graceless social maneuvers known to wolfkind, announces to the room: "Grace is not my mate."

He looks directly at me and gives a small, satisfied nod like he’s just brilliantly defused a bomb instead of strapping additional explosives to it.

I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath through my nose.

My boyfriend’s an idiot.

"High Alpha—" three different voices chorus in unison, and Caine holds up a hand to interrupt them.

"No questions will be taken at this time."

Does the man think he’s holding a press conference?

Jer asks Sara, "Aren’t they mates?"

Sara replies, "I think so?"

But our relationship telepathy is still not working because he announces, "They are my children. Treat them as such."

We’re all worried.

Caine clears his throat. "You may call me Dad if you wish. Father is also acceptable." His eyes linger on Sara and Bun. "Daddy would work, too."

Sara’s face goes white.

Bun doesn’t glance up from her M&M-centric archaeology.

And me?

I’m still sitting here dumbfounded, with no idea how to deal with this man.

I’d made it perfectly clear—perfectly. fucking. clear.—he was supposed to keep his distance.

No one warned me the man was incapable of acting.

And why would he announce the kids as his? Anyone with a nose—which is every single person in this pack—will know they aren’t Lycans. They aren’t even wolf shifters.

My mouth opens.

Then closes.

Then opens again.

The words I finally manage to choke out are hoarse and tight. "I don’t think that will be necessary, Sir."

The three Lycans share an awkward glance, and Jer whispers, "So do we call him Daddy or Sir?"

Sara mumbles, "Just don’t talk to him and we won’t ever have to worry about it."

Then she peeks at Caine, who frowns at her with the faintest hint of downturned lips and furrowed brow, and she gulps. Her tune changes rapidly as her face goes even whiter, if possible.

"Or call him Daddy. I think Daddy will work."