Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 65

Chapter 65: Grace: Cultural Differences

Lyre waits for me to calm down, awkwardly patting at my back the entire time.

When the embarrassing sobs finally subside, she disappears into the connected bathroom, only to re-appear with a damp towel. She shoves it at me. “Here. Wipe your face.”

I take the towel, pressing its cool dampness against my swollen eyes. It relieves the burn, but does nothing for the crushing weight of guilt settling into my chest. I drag the cloth across my face, trying to wipe away the shame along with the tear tracks.

When I lower the towel, Lyre stands watching me, her slitted eyes narrowed. Without warning, she rakes both hands through her rainbow hair, back and forth in wild, vigorous strokes, leaving her disheveled.

She heaves a sigh so dramatic it could deflate a balloon. If she was one. “You know death is not the same for people like them, right?”

I blink, the towel still clutched in my hands. “What?”

“Shifters. Wolves.” She waves a hand in a vague circular motion. “The Lycan King. Death doesn’t mean the same thing to them that it does to humans.”

An inappropriate bubble of hysterical laughter hits my throat, and I swallow it back. “But they still die, Lyre. They have families. Lovers. Kids. You know?”

She perches at the edge of my bed, rubbing a few fingers against her forehead. “Look, Grace I get it. But you’re still seeing their world through human eyes.”

The sense of guilt fades, buried under my brain working to understand what she’s saying. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that what Caine did—” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “It wasn’t extraordinary by their standards. Brutal? Sure. Excessive? Maybe. But unexpected? Not really.”

“I mean—it’s a lot of people, Lyre. The pile of bodies was…” My voice trails off as she lifts one shoulder in a half shrug, holding a hand between us with her palm.

It’s so dismissive.

“And how do you think he became Lycan King? By asking nicely?”

My mouth opens, then closes. I’d never really thought about it before.

“Alpha challenges end in blood,” Lyre says, matter-of-fact. “Especially for the highest throne. Loyal wolves fight to the death. It’s brutal, sure—but it’s tradition.”

“But—”

“Territorial expansion?” She counts on her fingers. “Smaller packs get crushed underfoot all the time. Rogue wolves? Executed without trial. Challenges to authority? Met with swift and often deadly force. Shifters don’t have law enforcement. Shifters enforce themselves, under the authority of their Alpha. And in this case, he is the authority.”

I shift my weight, listening to the plasticky pillow behind me crinkle at the movement. Her words… make sense. But it’s hard to reconcile with my own brain. I don’t recall any violence in the Blue Mountain Pack. There were certainly no alpha challenges. And Alpha…

Damn it. I have to stop calling him that. He is no longer my alpha.

Brax.

Brax didn’t expand their territory.

So, what she’s saying… makes sense. But it isn’t the reality of the years I’ve lived.

“I’m not saying you should approve,” she adds, her voice softening slightly. “I’m just saying that death is an expected consequence in their world.”

I twist the damp towel between my hands. “Even a lot of it?”

“They wouldn’t call it murder. They’d call it war, or justice. Even injustice sometimes. Or pack law.” She shrugs. “I’m not defending it. I’m just translating the wolf mindset for your tender human sensibilities.”

“My sensibilities aren’t tender,” I protest, though the evidence of my tears suggests otherwise.

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