Grace of a Wolf-Chapter 23: Grace: Not Clear At All

I press my lips together, not sure what to do. If I tell him Ellie hurt me, he might... hurt her, right?

No, wait. This line of reasoning has no basis in reality. He doesn’t care about me. If he was going to get upset over someone grabbing my wrist, his beta wouldn’t have stood there so calmly while she did it. Ergo, there’s no point in protecting Ellie. I don’t even like her. She’s an objectively terrible person.

Sighing, I tug my arm out of his grasp, mildly surprised when he lets go. His brow creases as he stares at my hand. "I just had a little altercation with Rafe’s mate earlier. Since I’m human, I get hurt pretty easily."

"Altercation?" Brooding eyes shift from my wrist to my face. "Didn’t I make it clear you’re mine?"

I stare at him, my mind blank. The absurdity of his claim only rises after yesterday. "No? I don’t think it’s very clear at all, actually."

His tense jaw goes slack, his narrowed eyes now wide at my response. He opens his mouth, then closes it, tilting his head as he inspects my face. "What did you say?" he finally asks, his voice much higher than normal.

He’s probably not used to being contradicted, but what does he expect with his strange behavior? Nothing’s clear at all! "I said no, you didn’t make it clear. What does being yours even mean?" My hands shake, and I clasp them into my lap tightly. I can’t keep looking at his face, so I look at the wall behind him instead.

This is a terrible idea. He’s going to kill me for going against him. He doesn’t like his authority challenged. But my mouth keeps going. "First, you tell the entire pack I’m yours—which I’m not. Then you tell them my presence here is illegal and I’m the problem between the packs. So which is it? Am I your property, or am I a criminal you need to get rid of?"

His nostrils flare. The muscles in his jaw work as if he’s grinding his teeth. "I never said—"

"You were mad at Alpha for taking me in. You kept asking him why a human was let into the pack. I didn’t know it was illegal then, but it makes sense now. So how can you be angry at Alpha if you’re also saying you’ve laid claim to me? Your actions are contradictory, don’t you think?" Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me. My bravery makes it hard to breathe, but at least the words are finally out there.

The crease between Caine’s brows deepens. His hand rises to his forehead, and he releases a long sigh while taking a step back. The space between us grows, and my lungs remember how to function again.

"I see your point," he says.

The words hang in the air as he walks back to his chair, dropping into it with a fluid motion that reminds me of a predator settling in for the hunt. The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable.

And awkward.

My stomach growls, reminding me of the cooling food in front of me. With trembling fingers, I pick up my fork in my left hand. Each bite is a challenge, but I chew on autopilot, the weight of Caine’s stare making it hard to swallow.

He slams his hand against the table out of nowhere, and I jump, tightening my grip on my fork before I drop it again.

"There’s nothing wrong with saying you’re mine while I investigate your situation." He sounds almost triumphant, his entire face relaxing as he stares at me.

It takes me a few seconds to process what he’s saying and understand he’s explaining himself. Meanwhile, his finger jabs through the air—at me, then himself, then back to me.

"You. You’re my prisoner." Each word is firm, with clear enunciation as he emphasizes every syllable. "No one else can lay their hand on you until my investigation is complete."

His chair scrapes against the ground. Before I can form a response, he storms out, the door slamming behind him with enough force to rattle the plates.

I sit frozen, fork suspended in mid-air, bits of egg dropping back to my plate. What kind of captor gets territorial over their prisoner’s well-being?

No. I decided not to try and apply basic logic to the man’s words or actions. The man is a lunatic, and nothing he does is ever going to make sense. Better to accept he’s crazy and move on.

At least he didn’t hurt me.

I stare at the door he just slammed. For all his intimidating presence and penchant for murder, the Lycan King seems more frustrated with me than homicidal. That’s a good thing, I think.

My shoulders droop a little, my upper back tense from holding into my fear from the moment I walked into this room. The constant terror of imminent death ebbs, replaced by a dull sort of acceptance. If he wanted to kill me, he’d have done it already. Instead, he’s oddly fixated on protecting me, I think. At least from others.

I reach for one of the golden-brown scones. Taking a small bite, I savor the subtle sweetness as it crumbles in my mouth.

The door crashes open again and the pastry slips from my hands, mashing itself against the floor. My heart leaps into my throat as I stare at the Lycan King’s broad frame filling the doorway, his expression stormy. My spine crawls.

"Er... did you forget something?"

"No." But he doesn’t move from the door.

My neck itches, probably from all the stress, and I reach up to scratch it without thinking. Pain shoots through my wrist at the movement, making me wince.

Caine’s boots thunder across the floor. One moment he’s at the door, the next his fingers wrap around my upper arm. His touch burns against my bare skin, and more touch burns through the fabric of my shirt.

"Get up." The words come out as a rough growl.

I have no idea what he wants, but I have no intention of pissing him off. It kind of feels like I’ve used up all my luck for the day already, so I stand immediately, following as he herds me to the other side of the room, where a couch sits across from a simple brick fireplace.

"Sit," he commands, and I do so, wondering if I look as confused as I feel.