Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 88

Chapter 88: Lyre: Let’s All Calm Down

LYRE

Jack-Eye steps forward, hands raised. “Let’s all calm down.”

I ignore him. “Do you want to send her back to intensive care? Because that’s what will happen if you drain her again. Energy transference isn’t a joke.”

Caine’s jaw works as he processes this, his desire to touch Grace warring with his need to keep her safe. It’s almost endearing how much his instincts conflict with each other.

Finally, he moves to a cushion near Grace—close, but not touching—and sits with the stiff posture of someone expecting an attack at any moment.

“Where is Fenris?” Grace asks, leaning forward but keeping her hands to herself.

“Recuperating,” Caine answers shortly. His gaze never leaves her face, drinking her in like a man dying of thirst. “He used a lot of energy.”

The way his voice darkens tells me there’s more to the story, but now isn’t the time to pry. His brain’s somewhere else, I’m sure, the kind of place it shouldn’t be with children under the same roof. Thankfully, they’re in the other room.

Then his attention shifts to me and Owen.

Huh.

Maybe I’m wrong. The man’s upper brain is still working.

“What is this place?” the overbearing brute demands. “Why is Grace here?”

Grace moves so suddenly I almost don’t catch her in time. One moment she’s sitting there all wide-eyed innocence, the next her hand is reaching toward Caine’s arm with an instinctive need to comfort.

I lunge forward, smacking her hand away before contact.

“No touching!”

Grace’s mouth drops open in shock as she cradles her hand against her chest. Not that I hurt her—I’d never—but the surprise of it stings worse than the tap itself, I’m sure.

Caine, predictable as the tide, snarls at me. A rumbling, guttural sound that would make most creatures soil themselves and beg for mercy. His eyes flash dangerously, muscles tensing as he prepares to launch.

Seven hundred years is plenty of time to lose patience with this particular brand of alpha male posturing.

I flick my finger toward him—a casual gesture, like brushing away a particularly annoying insect—and the air responds instantly, condensing into a wave that slams into Caine’s chest and throws him backward into the stone wall.

The impact makes a satisfying thud. Nothing that would actually hurt him, just enough force to rattle his oversized ego. The cushions scatter around him as he slides down to the floor, his expression a spectacular blend of shock and fury.

Owen, lurking near the entrance, makes a strangled sound. Poor thing. Probably contemplating which exit strategy won’t get him killed.

“Do you both think I’m joking?” I ask, looking between Grace and Caine. “That I’m just being dramatic for fun?”

Silence hangs in the air.

Jack-Eye clears his throat. “Well—she did say no touching.”

At least one of them is smart.

“Your energy is critically depleted,” I continue, focusing on Grace. “And his—” I jab a finger toward the now-seething Lycan King, “—is overwhelming. One touch, even a small one, and he’ll pull from you again. He can’t help it.”

Grace’s eyes widen. She looks down at her hand like it’s suddenly foreign to her.

“I wasn’t intending to… Sorry, Lyre.”

The feral toddler comes tearing around the corner, her face smeared with what appears to be pizza sauce and possibly chocolate. I hope it’s chocolate.

But Bun is faster than she looks. She careens across the floor with the unstoppable momentum of a tiny, sauce-covered missile. Her destination is clear, and nothing—nothing—will deter her.

She launches herself directly into Grace’s lap with a flying leap Olympic gymnasts would admire and lets out a bellow loud enough to shake dust from the cave ceiling. “MAMA!”

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