Grace of a Wolf-Chapter 52: Grace: Muffin

Lyre was right.

Fenris hides under the dinette table as I vacuum black fur off the daybed comforter. I’d tried to kick him out when I woke up to a furry, dead weight on my feet, but he’s ultimately too heavy to drag out the door.

The vacuum roars as I attack another patch of black fur. Every swipe feels like a tiny rebellion against the wolf—against Caine—against this whole ridiculous situation. If I can’t control anything else in my life, at least I can eliminate this evidence of unwanted company.

A pathetic whimper sounds from behind me, followed by the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a tail against the camper’s floor. I refuse to turn around. Fenris might look like an oversized puppy right now, but he’s not. He’s a full-grown wolf, and he knows exactly what he did wrong.

I shut off the vacuum with more force than necessary. The sudden silence feels accusatory.

"You should get dressed." Lyre doesn’t look up from her phone, just sips her coffee, her rainbow hair catching the morning light through the windows. "They’ll be here soon."

My stomach drops, and I groan. "Do I have to?"

Last night’s dreams flash through my mind—fragments of nightmares where I was locked in a stone tower, my blonde hair grown long like Rapunzel’s, watching the world through a tiny window. But worse than those were the other dreams—the ones where Caine’s hands weren’t dragging me away but pulling me close, his mouth not speaking threats but...

Heat crawls up my neck.

"Unless you want to greet the Lycan King in your pajamas." Lyre sounds utterly unconcerned. "Which, honestly, might be a power move."

I’m not sure how pajamas equal power, but I grab one of Lyre’s old band t-shirts and a pair of stretchy shorts and take them with me to the bathroom. Five minutes later, I’m back out, second-guessing the shorts. But my jeans are dirty, and Lyre’s don’t fit.

"Weren’t we supposed to go to—" I stop, frowning at Fenris. "You know, away?"

Lyre finally looks up, her slitted eyes unreadable. "It would just be a waste of money at this point."

"What?"

"Gas. Food. Lodging." She ticks off each item on her fingers. "All expensive. And for what? He’s not going to let you go so easily."

Ugh.

I’m not sure why Caine’s even hunting me down, but after last night, it’s pretty clear he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

Maybe he thinks I’m trying to take over the Blue Mountain Pack or something. Taint it with half-human, half-shifter babies? He seems pretty obsessed with bringing up my relationship to Rafe, and now he’s worried about Andrew, too.

"That makes sense," I mumble.

"What does?"

"Oh. I think I figured out why Caine’s hunting me down. Werewolves are purists, you know? They don’t like it when humans mix with their pack. Even before everything went south, it was pretty rough for me."

Setting her phone on her lap, Lyre gives me her full attention, her eyebrows bunching together. She seems concerned more than interested. Maybe she’s worried about me. "Okay. Hit me with your theory, then."

Flopping onto the daybed, I fiddle with the ends of my hair, noticing how some strands are lighter than others. "I’m thinking Caine’s worried I’ll try to... I don’t know, seduce Rafe back or something? Use our history to influence him? Or maybe he’s concerned I’ll corrupt his bloodline."

This probably doesn’t make a lot of sense to Lyre, who only has bits and pieces of my backstory. "Rafe’s the new alpha of the pack," I add helpfully as she stares at me like I’ve grown a second head.

She nods slowly. "Okay..."

"Anyway. Shifters are obsessed with purity, right? So it makes sense he’d be suspicious of my intentions."

Lyre’s expression doesn’t change, but something about her stillness makes me feel like I’m being dissected. "This is the conclusion you’ve come to?"

"Well, it’s just a working theory."

"But why would he think you’re trying to take over a pack you’re running away from?"

I open my mouth, close it, then fall back against my pillow. She’s right. It makes no sense, putting me directly back at square one. Why am I getting chased by the Lycan King?

Fenris huffs.

"Hush," I tell him absently, running my fingers through my hair with enough force to make my scalp sting. "I just don’t get it, then. Why is he here?"

"Did you get good grades in school?"

The non sequitur catches me off guard. "What?"

Lyre’s face remains blank. "In school. Were you a good student?"

"I mean... I did okay, I guess?"

"Ah. Then it’s just willful ignorance."

Before I can ask what she means, three sharp knocks rap against the door. Fenris lays his head on his paws, unimpressed by his master’s arrival.

Lyre rolls of the couch and bounces to her feet, all without spilling a drop of coffee. "Breakfast’s here," she announces, moseying her way to the door.

A few minutes later, Caine and Jack-Eye stand in the kitchen, crowding our space. Their hulking figures block out most of the morning light, and Lyre seems unimpressed as she flips on the kitchen lights to see what they’ve brought over.

They’re still wearing the same clothes they were in last night and—through the screen door Lyre leaves open—I can see Andrew cleaning up his camp site. The tent’s still up, and there’s someone else there with him, too. I didn’t see him last night.

"There’s no way you all fit in that tent together," Lyre says, plucking a to-go container of bacon out of Jack-Eye’s hands.

"You’re right," Jack-Eye says, balancing more white boxes. "Andrew and Thom slept in the car."

Thom? I don’t recognize that name, but he must be the other person outside. I wonder if they got to eat breakfast already. It feels a little weird to exclude them from the food.

Jack-Eye sets everything on the counter, opening each container as he does so. White toast, as requested. Eggs—both over easy and scrambled. French toast dusted with powdered sugar and cinnamon.

My stomach growls at the sight, but I’ll wait to get my plate. With two Lycans and Lyre in the kitchen, it’s a little too crowded.

Lyre recoils when she sees the French toast. "That’s disgusting."

Jack-Eye gasps and clutches a hand over his heart, as if her words mortally wounded him. "Mademoiselle. French toast is the best breakfast food in existence."

"It’s soggy bread," Lyre counters, putting eggs on her plate. "Bread that’s been dunked in eggs and milk until it’s a sad, pathetic version of itself. It’s bread that gave up."

"It’s bread that was elevated to a higher form of existence." Jack-Eye points at her with a plastic fork. "The way the custard soaks into every—"

"Custard?" Lyre makes a gagging noise. "Just say what it is. Snotty egg juice."

Jack-Eye frowns. "Are you even human?"

"Nope," Lyre says, unfazed. "Are you?"

"Uh—no."

I try not to smile, but there’s something cute about their easy banter. Like they’ve known each other longer than about ten hours, with eight hours of those being sleep.

Then my shoulders tense as I realize I’m already taking this situation for granted, like it’s our new normal. How scary.

As they continue on into a French toast versus pancake debate (apparently this is a hill Jack-Eye is willing to die on), Caine pulls out the chair across from me. He’s been staring at me without blinking, but I’ve been trying to ignore his presence.

He sits with the casual, confident air of someone who owns every space they enter. The table between us feels both too small and impossibly wide, and a teeny, tiny, traitorous part of me is upset he’s sitting across from me instead of beside me.

No. Scratch that thought. Wipe it from record.

I should grab a plate and join the others in the kitchen. Maybe food will keep my brain working properly and out of Caine’s pants.

From my peripheral vision, I see him reach into his jacket. My muscles tense instinctively. What’s he pulling out? A weapon? A contract for me to sign in blood? Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be—

He places a small paper bag on the table between us and pushes it across to me.

"For you," he says, without any inflection at all. Seriously, the man’s about as warm and welcoming as the Arctic.

Still, my heart does a traitorous little flutter in my chest. The paper bag is plain and unassuming, but he still bought me something.

Then again, it could have a bomb inside. Unlikely, but we’re talking about a mass murderer, here. One can never predict what’s going through their heads.

I reach for it cautiously, half expecting it to explode. But the bag crinkles normally in my hand, and when I open it, I just stare in confusion.

A single blueberry muffin sits inside. Not bakery-fresh, from the looks of it—probably from a gas station or convenience store. Its top is dotted with sugar crystals, a few sad blueberries visible beneath the golden-brown surface.

"Thank you?" My voice lilts it into a question. I’m holding the muffin now, the wrapper crinkling between my fingers.

"I thought you’d like one."

My mind races back to our conversation at the Blue Mountain Pack after Alpha died. When Caine was questioning me about my relationship with Rafe and brought me breakfast. When he said...

"You hate blueberry muffins," I blurt out.

His steel-gray eyes don’t leave mine. "I’m reconsidering my opinion."

He bought this specifically for me. Not because he likes them, but because...

Oh. He’s probably trying to placate me before dragging me back.

Now it makes sense.