Grace of a Wolf-Chapter 88: Lyre: Let’s All Calm Down

LYRE

Jack-Eye steps forward, hands raised. "Let’s all calm down."

I ignore him. "Do you want to send her back to intensive care? Because that’s what will happen if you drain her again. Energy transference isn’t a joke."

Caine’s jaw works as he processes this, his desire to touch Grace warring with his need to keep her safe. It’s almost endearing how much his instincts conflict with each other.

Finally, he moves to a cushion near Grace—close, but not touching—and sits with the stiff posture of someone expecting an attack at any moment.

"Where is Fenris?" Grace asks, leaning forward but keeping her hands to herself.

"Recuperating," Caine answers shortly. His gaze never leaves her face, drinking her in like a man dying of thirst. "He used a lot of energy."

The way his voice darkens tells me there’s more to the story, but now isn’t the time to pry. His brain’s somewhere else, I’m sure, the kind of place it shouldn’t be with children under the same roof. Thankfully, they’re in the other room.

Then his attention shifts to me and Owen.

Huh.

Maybe I’m wrong. The man’s upper brain is still working.

"What is this place?" the overbearing brute demands. "Why is Grace here?"

Grace moves so suddenly I almost don’t catch her in time. One moment she’s sitting there all wide-eyed innocence, the next her hand is reaching toward Caine’s arm with an instinctive need to comfort.

I lunge forward, smacking her hand away before contact.

"No touching!"

Grace’s mouth drops open in shock as she cradles her hand against her chest. Not that I hurt her—I’d never—but the surprise of it stings worse than the tap itself, I’m sure.

Caine, predictable as the tide, snarls at me. A rumbling, guttural sound that would make most creatures soil themselves and beg for mercy. His eyes flash dangerously, muscles tensing as he prepares to launch.

Seven hundred years is plenty of time to lose patience with this particular brand of alpha male posturing.

I flick my finger toward him—a casual gesture, like brushing away a particularly annoying insect—and the air responds instantly, condensing into a wave that slams into Caine’s chest and throws him backward into the stone wall.

The impact makes a satisfying thud. Nothing that would actually hurt him, just enough force to rattle his oversized ego. The cushions scatter around him as he slides down to the floor, his expression a spectacular blend of shock and fury.

Owen, lurking near the entrance, makes a strangled sound. Poor thing. Probably contemplating which exit strategy won’t get him killed.

"Do you both think I’m joking?" I ask, looking between Grace and Caine. "That I’m just being dramatic for fun?"

Silence hangs in the air.

Jack-Eye clears his throat. "Well—she did say no touching."

At least one of them is smart.

"Your energy is critically depleted," I continue, focusing on Grace. "And his—" I jab a finger toward the now-seething Lycan King, "—is overwhelming. One touch, even a small one, and he’ll pull from you again. He can’t help it."

Grace’s eyes widen. She looks down at her hand like it’s suddenly foreign to her.

"I wasn’t intending to... Sorry, Lyre."

"That’s the problem with mate bonds." I sigh heavily. "They override rational thought. You don’t think, you just act, and suddenly you’re back in a hospital bed with tubes down your throat."

Caine pushes himself off the floor, bristling with barely contained rage. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, tattoos rippling across his skin like living shadows.

"You have three seconds to explain why I shouldn’t tear your head off," he growls.

Uninspired. I roll my eyes. "Because A: you can’t, and B: I’m trying to keep your mate alive, you absolute walnut."

"Walnut?" Jack-Eye whispers from somewhere behind me, sounding far too amused for someone who’s supposed to be blindly loyal to his king.

I clap my hands together, loud enough to startle everyone. The brief nudge of arcana to amplify the sound might have helped. "Charming as this display of dominance is—truly, it’s riveting—there are way more important questions to ask right now, don’t you think?"

Caine opens his mouth, no doubt to say something predictably threatening, when movement catches my peripheral vision.

The feral toddler comes tearing around the corner, her face smeared with what appears to be pizza sauce and possibly chocolate. I hope it’s chocolate.

Behind her, a girl with braided hair sprints with her arms outstretched, looking equal parts furious and desperate.

"Bun, get back here!" she hisses, reaching for the escaping toddler.

But Bun is faster than she looks. She careens across the floor with the unstoppable momentum of a tiny, sauce-covered missile. Her destination is clear, and nothing—nothing—will deter her.

She launches herself directly into Grace’s lap with a flying leap Olympic gymnasts would admire and lets out a bellow loud enough to shake dust from the cave ceiling. "MAMA!"

The word echoes, bouncing off stone walls and ringing in the sudden, profound silence that follows.

Grace’s face goes slack with shock, her mouth wide enough to catch an army of flies as she instinctively catches the child. Motherly instincts. Not surprising, for someone with her fate.

Bun immediately snuggles against her chest, tiny fingers gripping Grace’s shirt with surprising strength as she rubs her sauce-streaked face against the fabric. She’s babbling a mile a minute, looking aggrieved with her scrunched up expression and fat crocodile tears.

Caine looks like someone just hit him with a sledgehammer. His expression cycles through confusion, shock, disbelief, and something that might be horror, all in the span of three seconds.

Oh.

This.

This is delicious.

My lips quirk at the horrible misunderstanding going through his head, even as I see panic widening Grace’s eyes.

"What," he says, voice dangerously flat, "is that."

The older girl skids to a halt at the edge of our little circle, her face draining of color as she realizes what just happened. Her pale skin goes even whiter, red eyes wide with panic. "That’s the Lycan King, isn’t it?"

Grace’s hand hovers uncertainly over the child’s head, not quite touching. "I—she’s not—we’re not—" Her face has gone an alarming shade of crimson.

"So," I drawl, enjoying this moment perhaps more than I should, "when were you going to mention you acquired a child? Must have slipped your mind during our quality time together."

"She’s not mine!" Grace manages to squeak out. "She just—I don’t know why—"

Jack-Eye looks like he’s contemplating the nearest exit strategy, his gaze darting between his alpha’s increasingly thunderous expression and the child now contentedly nestled against Grace.

Owen steps forward, hands raised in a placating gesture. "I can explain," he begins, then immediately takes a step back when Caine’s attention snaps to him, like a predator catching movement in tall grass. freeωebnovēl.c૦m

"Please do," the Lycan says, each word dripping with menace.