The Wolfless Contract Luna (Grace and Ethan) novel Chapter 17

**Chapter 17: Elder Laf’s Visit**

**Grace POV**

I awaken with a jolt, my mind swirling in a fog of confusion.

The chaos I left behind last night—papers strewn about in a haphazard manner—now sits meticulously arranged on my desk. A blanket envelops me, its softness and warmth wrapping around my shoulders like a comforting embrace, infused with a subtle scent of pine and smoke that lingers in the air.

Ethan.

A rush of warmth floods my chest, surprising me with its intensity. He was here. In my room. While I slept, completely vulnerable. The realization should unsettle me, should ignite a spark of anger within.

Yet, it doesn’t. Instead, it wraps around me like a cocoon, a sense of safety washing over me, as if I were being guarded rather than merely observed.

Stop. This is professional. Nothing more.

But deep down, I know that’s a lie. Professionalism doesn’t stir butterflies in my stomach when I catch a whiff of his scent lingering on the blanket. It doesn’t make my heart race at the thought of him standing in the shadows, ensuring I remained warm and undisturbed.

The remnants of a dream cling to my consciousness.

That white wolf. Those striking green eyes—my eyes—reflecting back at me, a mirror image I barely recognize.

A voice, soft and ethereal, like the whisper of falling snow: “Soon.”

My fingers brush against my neck, searching for the mark that Damien left behind, the one that should burn with the weight of its significance. Instead, I find only a faint ache, a reminder of a wound that is finally beginning to heal. The mark is fading. After five long years, it seems to be releasing its grip on me.

Is that why I dreamed of the white wolf? Is she attempting to resurface?

The thought sends a thrill of hope and terror coursing through me. What if she has been there all along, buried too deep to be reached? What if the loss of Damien is what ultimately allows her to break free?

Sunlight floods through the windows, illuminating the room. I glance at the clock, and my stomach plummets.

11:47 AM.

Panic surges through me like a tidal wave. Ethan had mentioned that the Council meeting was scheduled for this morning. I’ve ruined everything. Overslept on what could be the most pivotal day of my life—

I scramble out of bed, my heart racing, but I freeze as my reflection catches my eye.

The bruises from yesterday have vanished. The cuts—healed. Even the deep gash on my ribs is reduced to a faint pink line.

How is this possible?

Werewolves are known for their rapid healing, but I don’t have a wolf. I’ve never experienced recovery like this before. Each injury I’ve sustained has lingered for days, a constant reminder of my brokenness.

So why now?

A knock at the door jolts me from my thoughts.

Ethan stands there, a tray in his hands, piled high with food—fresh bread, ripe fruit, steaming coffee, and my breath catches when I see a small jar of blueberry jam.

He greets me with a gentle smile, a teasing glint in his eyes as he glances at the clock.

Apologies tumble from my lips. I overslept. The meeting—

He steps inside, and I instinctively move back, suddenly acutely aware of how thin my nightgown feels against my skin, how close he is standing to me. He reassures me that he pushed the meeting to after lunch.

“I figured you could use the extra rest.”

Relief crashes over me, so intense that my knees feel weak. He pushed the meeting back. For me.

Because he thought I needed sleep more than I needed to prove myself.

When was the last time someone prioritized my needs?

He sets the tray down near the window and gestures for me to take a seat.

I should protest. I should maintain some distance. But the aroma of freshly baked bread makes my stomach growl, and the way he looks at me—with patience and kindness—renders it impossible to refuse.

I sit.

Ethan settles across from me, spreading blueberry jam onto a slice of bread with meticulous care. Then he hands it to me, still warm from his touch.

The simplicity of the gesture strikes me. It’s so domestic, reminiscent of something a husband would do for his wife over breakfast.

And it makes my chest ache because—

This isn’t mine. This is borrowed time. A contract. One year, and then nothing.

He asks how I’m feeling, his gaze scanning my face with an intensity that makes me feel truly seen.

My cheeks flush. I tell him I’m fine. Just a few bruises. The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. I’m terrified, confused, and I can’t shake the awareness of how close he’s sitting.

He doesn’t seem convinced. He points out that I fought off rogues without a wolf.

I deflect, murmuring that I had a gun.

His voice drops, low and steady as he tells me I displayed courage. The sincerity in his words sends my heart racing, igniting a flicker of hope within me. I want to believe him.

To avoid responding, I focus on the bread, taking a bite.

The blueberry jam is exquisite. Sweet and tart, precisely how I love it. My favorite. My secret favorite that I’ve never shared with anyone.

How did he know?

The question lingers in my mind, unsettling yet warm.

Then he shifts the conversation back to the contract, and the warmth in my chest evaporates.

Of course. Back to business.

The bread suddenly tastes like ash in my mouth. I tell him I need more time, that it’s complicated.

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