Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 94

Chapter 94: Grace: Choice

His face—ah, his face. It’s like watching a fortress wall crack in real time. Something vulnerable and raw flashes behind those storm-gray eyes before his expression hardens again. My words have genuinely blindsided him.

“Feasible,” he echoes. He looks as if he’s hearing the word for the first time.

I shift again. Both buttcheeks have lost feeling, but I still don’t want to interrupt Bun’s sleep. “Yeah. You know—long-term. Values. Morals. Views of the future.”

“You’re questioning whether to accept the mate bond.” His voice drops an octave, rougher around the edges. Not threatening, but definitely unsettled.

“No. I’ve accepted it—”

“Have you?”

“I’m not denying it. I’m just asking for more. This isn’t just about some mystical connection, Caine. It’s about two people with separate lives figuring out if they’re compatible.”

His laugh is short and harsh. “Compatibility is irrelevant. The bond doesn’t make mistakes.”

“Maybe not for shifters,” I counter. “But I’m human. And humans don’t typically commit our entire futures to someone we’ve known for less than a week.”

Bun stirs against me, her tiny nose scrunching up before settling back down. I lower my voice further.

“I want to get to know you,” I continue. “The real you—not just the Lycan King or the guy who can make my body feel things I didn’t know were possible. Not as the man who killed people I’ve known for years. I want to know Caine so well I can judge what you’re thinking just by the way the skin wrinkles at the corner of your eyes, or how your lips curve up or down. If we don’t have that, is it really a relationship at all?”

Caine rubs a hand over his face, frustration radiating from him. “You speak as if we’re strangers deciding whether to date.”

I mean—aren’t we?

It’s hard to understand why he thinks we’re not.

“Aren’t we?” I ask quietly. “Besides you being possessive and lethal, what do I really know about you?”

His gaze shifts to Bun, then back to me. “I’ve been trying to picture it,” he admits, and the vulnerability in his tone catches me off-guard. “You, with me. Children. A home.”

I bite my lip. “I haven’t.”

By the way his face darkens, I’ve said the very, very wrong thing.

Hastily, I try to patch it up. “I want to know what makes you laugh, what keeps you up at night, what you dream about when you’re not killing people for looking at me wrong. These are the things I’ve been thinking about.”

Well—among other, R-rated things. But admitting that here feels very dangerous.

Caine’s face is a battlefield of emotions—disappointment warring with confusion, frustration tangled with something that looks dangerously like hurt.

“You’re rejecting me,” he says, sounding flat and emotionless.

“Absolutely not.” See? I knew he’d take it the wrong way. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying I need to actually know the person I’m supposedly destined to spend forever with. Let’s take it slow.”

His jaw works, muscles tensing. “You know me.”

“No, I don’t. And you don’t know me.”

“I know you. I know your scent. I know how you breathe when you’re rattled. You keep picking at your thumb when you’re nervous, and you pretend to be submissive when you’re thinking about running.”

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