Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 55

Chapter 55: Grace: Sympathy For a Wolf

Lyre won’t stop staring in the direction of Andrew’s camp lot, even after closing the blinds. She can’t even see through the black fabric, so I’m not sure why she keeps looking over there.

Every few minutes, she lifts the blinds and peeks underneath, only to close them again. But she’s so nonchalant about it, like it’s something people do on a daily basis.

It’s not. Even I know that.

I’m about to ask her what she’s looking for when she suddenly drops her head with a long, heavy sigh that makes me jump.

“Your boyfriend’s lost it.” Her voice sounds almost bored, but her fingers tap rapidly against her thigh.

I blink, and my stomach plummets to the vicinity of my toes. “Rafe’s my ex. Is he really here?”

Lyre turns to me with an expression so flat it could level mountains. Her left eyebrow wings up after a few seconds, and her tapping speeds up.

It seems like I’m missing something.

“What?” I ask, genuinely confused.

“I never thought I’d feel sympathy for a wolf.” Her nose wrinkles. “Yet here we are.”

This doesn’t sound good. “Is Caine… Did he… is Rafe dead?”

I step closer, a little panicked now. Much like Andrew, I don’t really want Rafe’s life on my hands. I also never want to see him again. Obviously, his death would fulfill my wish, but it would leave me with a whole ton of guilt I’m not willing to shoulder.

Guilt means remembering.

I don’t want to remember any of it.

Lyre raises her hand, palm out, and I freeze. “Stop. Just stop talking.” Her eyes flick toward the door, then back to me, still tapping away. “I guess I need to move things along before this gets worse.”

“Before what

gets worse?”

But Lyre doesn’t answer; you’d think I’d be getting used to it by now. I’m not. Instead, she straightens her spine, squares her shoulders, and marches directly to the door. I barely have time to process what’s happening before she shoves it open with enough force it slams against the side of the camper.

“Stop that,” she commands to whoever’s outside. “Grace can’t breathe.”

My hands fly to my throat reflexively. I look down at my chest as if I might actually see my lungs malfunctioning, but… everything seems normal? My breathing is steady, if a bit quick with anxiety. I’m not gasping or struggling for air.

I peer around Lyre’s slim frame and immediately wish I hadn’t.

Jack-Eye, Andrew, and the stranger I’d seen earlier are on the ground. The beta is on his knees, but the other two are flat on the ground. If anyone’s having problems breathing, it’s them—not me.

It only takes a second to recognize what’s happening. I’ve already seen it once before, after all.

But I feel… nothing. No pressure, no compulsion to kneel, no difficulty breathing. No hint of Caine’s dominance touches me. Or Lyre, apparently.

“I’m breathing fine,” I whisper to Lyre, who makes a shooing gesture behind her back. I guess my input is unnecessary.

“Grace…?” Caine says, sounding strange. Distant.

Lyre spins toward me, mouth set in a stern line. She holds a palm up, mouthing “stay right here” before backing down the camper steps. She does it with such ease, like she has eyes in the back of her head.

I strain to hear what’s happening outside, but the wind brings her voice right to me.

“Grace is inside. Don’t you want to check on her?”

Is Lyre talking to Caine? Or is she talking to Rafe? And if it is Rafe, where is he? I didn’t see him out there.

Screw it. I peek around the doorway again, only to verify Lyre is talking to Caine—whose eyes meet mine almost immediately.

He shoves Lyre aside without ceremony, storming forward. His weight on the stairs sways the RV. When he ducks through the doorway to come inside, my mouth goes dry.

The door slams shut behind him; he didn’t do it. Lyre, I guess.

Now I’m alone with him. So much for being on my side. First Fenris, now Lyre, both abandoning me in my time of need.

Caine’s presence has always been overwhelming, but now he looks positively feral. Veins stand out against his neck. His eyes have darkened to storm clouds, and his jaw clenches so hard I can almost hear his teeth grinding together. Even his breathing is loud, heavy and rough.

Every inch of him radiates barely contained violence.

He stalks toward me, and I flinch back instinctively.

“Um, hi?” The word’s more of a squeak anything else, but he doesn’t respond, much less blink.

His legs eat up the distance between us in long strides as I retreat, hands behind me feeling for obstacles. The small space of the camper suddenly feels like a trap. My lower back hits something solid—the entertainment center—and panic flutters in my chest.

Nowhere to run.

Verify captcha to read the contentVerify