Grace of a Wolf-Chapter 36: Grace: Eight Hundred Miles

Lyre shifts in her seat, her slitted eyes observing our exchange with quiet interest. She doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t try to persuade either of us. Her neutrality is refreshing after years of wolves who thought they knew what was best for me. Though I wonder what she’s thinking about behind her impassive face. We must sound crazy.

Andrew rubs his hand across his face, losing some of his aggressive denial. Instead, he’s pleading. "You have no idea how dangerous this is. You’re human, Grace."

I look to Lyre. "How far is Yellowstone from here?"

"About eight hundred miles," she says calmly, like we’re discussing the weather or something.

Eight hundred miles. Eight hundred miles between me and the Blue Mountain Pack. Between me and Rafe and Ellie. Between me and the murderous Lycan King.

"You can’t outrun them," Andrew insists. "Especially not the Lycan King. If he wants you—"

I roll my eyes. "Andrew, you brought me here under the assumption we could outrun him. Now you’re changing your story because I’m not going to do what you want. You can’t have it both ways."

"But—"

"He doesn’t care about me. Trust me." The memory of Caine’s gray eyes flashes through my mind—the intensity of his gaze as he wrapped the bandage around my wrist. But I push it away.

"You’re wrong. He—" Andrew stops himself, huffing something between a sigh and a groan.

"He...?"

Grimacing, Andrew shakes his head. "It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re making a mistake. This woman—" he gestures at Lyre, "—you don’t know her. You don’t know what she is."

Lyre’s lips quirk at that. "He’s not wrong about that."

I glance between them. Andrew’s obvious mistrust, Lyre’s casual acknowledgment.

"Are you something other than human?" I ask her directly.

She tilts her head, catlike. "Does it matter?"

The question gives me pause. Does it? After everything I’ve been through with wolves, should I fear other supernatural beings just the same?

But then I think of my life at the pack—the constant reminders of my humanity, my weakness, my otherness.

"No," I decide. "It doesn’t matter. As long as you’re not planning to hurt me." ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com

Lyre smiles, revealing teeth that seem just a touch too sharp. "I have no interest in hurting you, Grace. You’re far more interesting alive."

Andrew makes a strangled noise. "You can’t be serious. Grace, listen to yourself!"

"You should go back, Andrew. Before they notice you’re missing too."

"I’m not leaving you with—"

"You are." My voice hardens. "Because this is my choice. Not yours, not Rafe’s, not Ellie’s. Mine."

Andrew stares at me, frustration evident in every line of his body. His jaw works as if chewing on words he wants to spit out.

Lyre scoots out of the dinette, stretching her lithe body as she stands. "So when do you want to leave? I’m flexible."

"Now would be best." The words come out without my bidding, and I press my lips together, embarrassed. "I mean, if that works for you. I’m not in a position to make demands."

A small smile plays on her lips as she nods. "Now works. Just need to batten down the hatches."

She moves through the cramped space with the fluid grace of someone who knows exactly where every inch of their body is. Her hands reach up to unhook a macramé plant hanger, carefully cradling the vine trailing from it.

"Have to secure everything before driving," she explains, gently arranging the plant into what looks like a modified kitchen cupboard. "Otherwise it all becomes projectiles the first time I hit the brakes."

Andrew’s hand clamps around my forearm again, his fingers digging into the same spot he’d grabbed earlier. The pressure makes me wince. "Grace—"

"Get your hand off her or you’re going to lose it." Lyre doesn’t even turn around, just continues methodically securing her plants. The calm in her voice makes the threat more chilling.

Andrew’s grip falters but doesn’t release. His breath comes faster beside me, and I can feel his indecision. It isn’t fear, but he seems worried. Probably thinks if he pisses me off, Rafe’s going to yell at him—but also if he lets me leave, Rafe’s going to yell at him.

Lyre places another plant into the cabinet, her movements unhurried. "The decision’s been made. Either you get out, or I’ll kick you out."

The growl rumbling from Andrew’s chest is pure animal—a sound I’ve heard countless times in six years. My heart thunders in my chest, but I refuse to cower. I’ve had enough of being controlled.

Sliding out of the dinette, I shake my arm violently until he finally lets it go. "Let me help you, Lyre."

For a moment, I think Andrew might lunge at me—his body tenses, his face contorting. But the moment passes. He stands, shoulders tight and fists clenched.

"Rafe will come for you," he says, voice low and rough. "Hopefully you’ll be a little calmer by then."

My brows fly up. "Am I not calm?"

His nostrils flare. "You have no idea what you’re doing."

He acts like he’s capable of fighting off an army to keep me safe, yet even Alpha and Beta fell under the might of the Lycans. It didn’t take very long, either. "At least it’s my mistake to make."

For several tense moments, Andrew just stands there. His breathing grows heavier, more labored, like he’s physically restraining himself from shifting. Huffing and snarling under his breath, he finally stomps toward the door.

The entire RV shakes with the force of his exit, the door slamming so hard that one of Lyre’s dreamcatchers swings wildly from its hook. The sudden motion makes my stomach lurch—a strange, mingled sensation of physical disorientation and emotional whiplash.

Lyre’s hand lands gently on my shoulder. "It’ll be fine."

The simple statement, delivered without drama or excessive reassurance, is strangely calming. I let out a long breath.

"I’m sorry for bringing drama to your door. You just met me and now you’re dealing with... this." Grabbing a cactus off the kitchen counter, I hand it to her. Offering to help was impulsive, but there’s one problem—I don’t know where anything goes or how to secure a camper for travel. I’ve never even been in one before today.

She takes the plant from me, securing it in a holder bolted to the wall. "I’m the one who invited it in." Her voice is light, almost amused.

"You couldn’t have known—"

"Couldn’t I?" She glances at me, slitted eyes narrowing slightly. "I saw you with him in the store. I knew exactly what you were running from."

A chill creeps up my spine. "What do you mean?"

She shrugs, moving to secure a strap across a shelf, keeping books in place. "Desperation has a particular scent. So does fear. And wolves—well, they have their own distinctive smell."

My fingers go numb as comprehension dawns. "You already knew Andrew was a shifter?"

"Of course." She gestures vaguely toward her eyes. "I’m not exactly standard issue human myself."

I’d assumed her eyes were contacts—a theatrical choice to match her vibrant aesthetic. But the casual way she references them suggests otherwise.

"What are you?"

"Does it matter?" she asks again, echoing her earlier response.

This time I don’t hesitate. "No. It doesn’t."

And I mean it. Whatever Lyre is, she’s offered me freedom. After years of being judged for my humanity, the last thing I want to do is judge someone else for being different.

"Good answer." She smiles, revealing those slightly-too-sharp teeth again.