Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 80

Chapter 80: Grace: Strawberries (I)

Giant brown eyes watch me with such suspicion, I’m pretty sure their owner thinks I’m a very hungry dragon with toddler on the menu.

I pretend not to notice the tiny human’s approach. Looking directly might spook her—or worse, encourage her to come closer. The bunny ears on her onesie bounce with each determined step, her diapered bottom swaying like a pendulum as she toddles across the uneven stone floor.

My kidnapper—can I even call him that now?—thrusts three sticks toward me. Each holds several bright red strawberries coated in a crystalline shell that catches the dim light. Tanghulu. I’d seen pictures of it before; fruit skewers dipped in sugar syrup that hardens into a candy coating.

The man’s face remains impassive, nearly hostile, as if handing me this sweet treat is equivalent to passing over the keys to his entire fortune.

I accept them cautiously.

Not a word has been spoken in the ten minutes since I regained consciousness, lying on a pile of thin fleece blankets.

My kidnapper (?) grunts at me before shuffling back to his boiling pot, dipping yet another stick of strawberries in it.

“Uh… thank you,” I offer, though I’m not sure why I’m thanking someone who drugged me and stole me from a hospital.

The cave—or whatever this place is—stretches around me in a peculiar mix of primitive and modern. Natural stone walls curve overhead, but someone’s strung LED light chains across them, the wires draped between wooden beams jammed into terracotta pots. The effect is oddly… homey.

A few other children sit cross-legged on mismatched rugs and pillows scattered across the floor. They crunch on their own tanghulu, sugar crystals catching in the corners of their mouths. They don’t seem concerned about being here. None look malnourished or scared.

What kind of kidnapping operation is this?

The toddler’s eyes remain locked on my untouched treats, a thin line of drool escaping the corner of her mouth. Her own tanghulu casualties lie scattered on the floor beneath her—strawberries separated from the stick, their sugar coating cracked and sticky against the stone floor.

Someone should probably clean that up.

Not me, but… someone.

No one seems to care, though.

“You don’t have to give her any if you don’t want to.” The oldest kid—maybe fifteen—squints at me. “She’s just a glutton. Already wasted hers.”

The toddler’s bottom lip quivers at this betrayal.

“I don’t mind sharing,” I say, surprising myself. I’m still woozy from whatever drug I was given, but clear-headed enough to wonder at my own calm. Shouldn’t I be screaming? Fighting? Looking for escape routes?

Instead, I’m contemplating sharing candy with a drooling toddler and possible fellow kidnappee.

I tap one of my sticks against my palm, testing its stickiness. “Is this place… where you all live?”

He shrugs, his dark hair falling across one eye. “Sometimes. Depends on what’s happening.”

A younger boy pipes up, maybe seven or eight, strawberry juice staining his chin. “It’s one of the safe houses.”

“Safe houses?” I repeat.

“For emergencies!” A girl with braids wrapped around her head like a crown says this like I should already know. “You know, when the bad people come for us.”

The toddler has reached me now, standing so close I can smell the strawberry on her breath. Her fingers tentatively reach upward.

I hold out one of my sticks, and she snatches it with surprising dexterity.

“What’s your name?” I ask her.

“She doesn’t really talk,” the oldest says. “We call her Bun.”

Bun collapses onto her padded bottom right next to me, examining her prize with intense concentration.

“And you are?” I direct this question to the teenager.

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