Grace of a Wolf-Chapter 101: Grace: Domesticity

A soft scuffling sound pulls me from sleep. I blink against the dimness, my eyes adjusting to the cave’s weak morning light.

It’s the same as its evening light, just whatever’s being given by the stringed lights across the walls. It just feels darker because waking should feel bright and sunny, not dim and... well, cave-like.

Sara’s crawled from her little nest to the edge of the alcove, peering out to the main part of the cave. She slept with her hair in braids, and they’re a mess, half-fallen off her head with large strands of hair floating in every which direction.

"Owen?" she whispers, too loud to be an actual whisper.

"He’s not here." Jer sits by his rumpled blankets, knees pulled tight to his chest. He seems very vacant for a kid full of energy. Yesterday, he couldn’t stop talking; today, he’s... monotone.

I try to sit up but discover I’m pinned. Bun’s tiny body is wrapped koala-style around my torso, her face buried so deeply into my neck I can barely even feel her warm breath puffing against my skin. It’s just there.

Both chubby hands are limp with the relaxation of deep sleep.

How do I get out of this situation?

"Bun," I whisper, gently stroking her back. "I need to get up."

She makes a sleepy noise of protest and burrows deeper, her tiny arms tightening with surprising strength.

"Come on, Bun-Bun. Breakfast time."

"Nooooo," she mumbles, clinging tighter. Her little fingers dig in like claws.

A shadow falls across us, and I look up to see Caine standing over me, his expression unreadable in the half-light.

"I’ll take her," he offers, reaching down.

Bun’s head snaps up, suddenly fully awake. Her eyes widen at the sight of Caine’s outstretched hands. The growl emanating from her throat sounds like absolutely nothing a toddler should make—it’s pure animal warning. She actually slaps his hand away, then presses her face back against my collarbone.

His eyebrows shoot up, but the corner of his mouth quirks. "Well, then."

He’s taking it in stride. He seems to have a soft spot for kids.

"Sorry," I mutter, struggling to sit up while keeping Bun balanced. How do moms do this? "She’s... attached."

From across the room, Ron’s scowling. Even without really looking at him, I can feel it. I’m not sure how long he’s been awake. "She used to come to me first," he mutters, just loud enough for me to hear. The hurt in his voice is barely disguised beneath teenage indifference.

But instead of dwelling on it, his attention shifts to the others. He stands up, stretching his long limbs, and moves toward Jer with practiced efficiency.

"Up," he says, not unkindly. "Sitting like that gets you nowhere."

The younger boy doesn’t budge.

Ron sighs and crouches beside him. "Three seconds before I carry you to breakfast. One, two..."

"I’m up." Jer stands with a sigh.

Sara’s still peering around the corner, knees to chest, and Ron heads over to ruffle her hair. "Come on. Owen will be back later."

"He should be back already," she argues, though there’s no heat in her voice. "He’s always back by morning."

"Well, he’s not. Let’s eat some breakfast. Brush your hair first; you look like you stuck your finger in a light socket."

Through some strange magic of being the eldest of the children—siblings, basically—Ron gets them all up, moving, and in the main living area, sitting in a semi-circle for breakfast. Sara’s got a plastic brush and, after multiple light swipes over her hair, she somehow looks worse than before.

"Give me that," the teenager says, snatching the brush out of her hand. "You didn’t even take them out of their braids."

She yawns. "Sorry. Owen always does my hair."

It’s obvious Ron’s never done this before, as he struggles to get the black elastic bands out of her hair. The girl yelps every so often as his fingers comb through tangles trying to undo her braids, but she seems to be doing better under his care than before, no longer obsessively staring and waiting for Owen to walk through the door.

I don’t know how to do this. These aren’t my kids. I have exactly zero experience with children; I don’t know what they eat, if they have routines, or how to read their cues. I don’t know how to comfort them without Owen here.

The panic rises in my throat, sharp and sudden. I didn’t sign up for four kids overnight. I’m barely holding my own life together. And yet I’m taking on the responsibility of a toddler somehow, one who won’t stop clinging to me despite me having no idea what to do or even where her clean diapers are stored. Ron’s been the one to get them all.

And if I take Bun, I can’t leave the others behind. So they’re all mine now, but Ron is only a few years younger than me, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to teach a girl how to brush her hair. How did my mom teach me? I can’t even remember not knowing.

Caine clears his throat, pulling me from my spiral. He’s moved to the kitchenette, standing in front of the open refrigerator with a perplexed expression.

"Why are there twelve pounds of carrots?" he asks, staring into its depths.

The randomness of the question breaks through my panic. "What?"

He gestures at the fridge. "Carrots. There’s enough to feed a stable of horses."

"Uh... they’re good for eyesight?" frёewebnoѵēl.com

He grunts and moves on to the tall, freestanding cabinet Owen’s repurposed as the cave’s pantry. His brow slowly creases as he surveys its contents. "What do you even do with this many apples?" He pulls out a bag filled with small red apples. "There’s three more bags in here."

"Snacks. And... fiber?" I guess weakly.

"Bun eats them," Sara pipes up, squeaking as Ron gets at another one of her tangles. "She takes a few bites and then throws them away, though."

Ah. So there’s a lot of waste involved.

I wonder how we’re supposed to fix that.

Jer snorts, the first sign of his usual personality this morning. "Owen calls them crunchy treats. Says we need the vitamins."

He sounds disgusted. Guess he’s not a fan.

Caine eyes the produce skeptically, then shrugs. Without further commentary, he pulls out eggs, bread, and what looks like a cast iron pan. He moves with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing, cracking eggs one-handed and throwing bread into an ancient toaster.

All the electricity in this place—not that there’s much—comes from extension cords strung across the ceiling. Aside from a few lights, most everything running electric is in the kitchen.

Everything being a fridge, a single-burner induction hot plate, a coffee maker, a microwave, and a toaster. I’m pretty sure we can’t run them all at the same time. The fridge has its own extension cord.

No idea where the extension cords lead to, but they come out of a wall near the bathroom.

But the miracles of modern day electricity aren’t what catch my attention. It’s Caine, silently taking over the kitchen as he makes breakfast while wearing the same clothes from yesterday, his hair slightly mussed from sleep and his face calm.

Watching him now, it’s a wonder I ever thought of him as some sort of serial killer. Granted, his facial expressions were darker and he tended to glower every time he looked at me...

This is a side of him I haven’t seen before.

He works in silence, the sizzle of eggs filling the cave. When the toast pops up, he arranges everything on mismatched plates—no idea where he found them. Then, surprisingly, he takes a knife and slices apples and pears into thin wedges, creating small piles on each plate.

Bun, still clinging to me, finally raises her head at the smell of breakfast. Drool drips from her partially open mouth as she stares in Caine’s direction.

"Jer, get the margarine," Ron says, and the younger boy shuffles toward the fridge with a yawn.

"Ow," Sara says as he works at another tangle. "That hurts!"

"Well, if you would brush your hair before bed..."

"Owen wasn’t home!"

"Learn to do it yourself, then."

"Enough, kids." Caine slides the plates in front of each kid, and Jer returns with a butter knife and a giant tub of margarine. "Eat first. You can finish her hair when she’s done."

"Yes, sir." Ron tosses the brush to the side as he takes his place on the floor, grabbing the knife from Jer as he butters a piece of toast.

Unsurprisingly, he hands it to Sara when he’s done. She takes it like she was expecting it, and he does another.

That one goes to Jer.

Then another. He comes to me, and Bun stares at the toast in his hand, still drooling.

"Here you go, Bun. Butter toast. Your favorite!"

She shakes her head, and he frowns. "Aren’t you hungry? I can see you drooling."

Bun shakes her head again and dives back into my neck. Not sure what to do, I hold out my hand. "Here. I’ll feed her when she’s ready to eat. You should focus on your own food."

Ron frowns, his face a mask of teenage disappointment. Something sharp twists in my chest at his expression.

"Sit." Caine’s order causes him to jerk up straight, and he shuffles back to his spot on the floor. He keeps his eyes fixed on his plate, stabbing at his eggs with more force than necessary.

Bun shifts in my arms, reaching for the toast in my hand with eager fingers. Her tiny face lights up as she takes a giant bite, crumbs cascading down the front of her pajamas and onto my lap. Happy little humming noises come out of her with each chew, and the teenager glances at us again.

Another frown crosses his face as he watches Bun’s delight. He quickly looks away, but not before I catch the hurt in his eyes.