Grace of a Wolf-Chapter 48: Grace: Different Wavelengths

Lyre’s hand twitches as whoever it is knocks again, right before her fingers touch the door handle.

Her head jerks back as she scowls, before dropping her arm and stepping back. Leaning against the opposite wall, she crosses her arms and counts silently, her lips moving with each number.

Her confidence is enough to instill awe. I can’t imagine a time I’ve ever felt as if I could just stand in front of a door as someone impatiently knocks, without answering.

And yet it makes all the sense in the world. This is her home. Her sanctuary. Who dares come knocking like this?

I want to be more like her.

"I’m grabbing a soda. Want one?" I whisper, slipping past her to the tiny kitchen nook.

Lyre shakes her head, still counting. I watch her lips move as she mouths, "Forty-two... forty-three..."

The knocking grows more insistent. Harder. Louder. The RV shakes with each impact, swaying gently underfoot. The first night, I’d been mildly seasick over the feeling. Now, I’m used to it.

After pulling a cold can from the fridge, I slide into one of the dinette seats, facing the door. From here, I can’t see the door, but I can watch Lyre’s methodical resistance.

"Eighty-six... eighty-seven..." She hasn’t even glanced at the door again, her eyes closed as her lips continue to move soundlessly.

I’m sure it’s Rafe out there, and am only surprised he isn’t yelling and demanding for us to open up at this point.

Then again, it isn’t like he knows Lyre, and we’re in the middle of a human settlement, even if it isn’t permanent homes. It would be awkward if the human authorities were called, I’m sure. We’re far out of pack range; I have no idea whose territory we are in now, actually.

It isn’t as if I was never taught about other territories, but there are so many, and I had no reason to be interested in packs so far from ours. Only our neighbors and some of the larger packs are familiar names.

"Ninety-eight... ninety-nine... one hundred." Lyre pushes off from the wall and strolls to the door with deliberate slowness.

The knocking has become pounding now, the thin door shuddering in its frame.

Lyre yanks it open. "Yes?" Her voice could freeze a desert in an instant. "What exactly is so important that you felt entitled to damage my property?"

I take a long sip of cold soda, relishing the sweetness. Let Rafe stew out there. Let him explain himself to someone who doesn’t care about his excuses. I’m looking forward to it; Lyre doesn’t seem like the kind of person to deal with his arrogant attitude.

"I’m looking for Grace Harper."

The soda catches in my throat. Not Rafe’s voice. It’s deeper. Colder.

Caine.

I choke, sputtering as the liquid burns down the wrong pipe. My eyes tear with the pain.

There’s a commotion—heavy footsteps, a wolf’s snarl, Lyre protesting, and then there’s Caine in front of me, his giant frame overpowering the tiny camper space. He kneels by my side, eyes locked on mine, storm-gray and intense. His oversized hand whacks at my back as if I’m choking on a peanut and not a sip of carbonated Coke.

My lungs seize with panic. I can’t breathe. Can’t speak. Can’t do anything but stare at the Lycan King who murdered Alpha Brax kneeling in front of me in this ridiculous rainbow camper looking at me like—

His hand connects with my back again, delivering a firm smack between my shoulder blades. The impact dislodges the soda from my airway, and I cough again, the sound much less wet this time.

"Are you okay?" His voice sounds strangely gentle for a serial killer who’s hunted down a runaway.

I gasp, finally drawing air. "What are you doing here?" The words are shrill and tinny, but at least they come out.

Caine’s eyes narrow, scanning my face, my hair, my body. His nostrils flare slightly. "Your hair is blonde."

It’s like deja vu, the way he comments on my appearance. My hand flies self-consciously to my now-blonde strands. "That doesn’t answer my question."

Behind him, Lyre leans against the wall, her slitted eyes observing with unnerving calculation. She doesn’t seem afraid of Caine, which strikes me as either incredibly brave or suicidally stupid.

A strangely familiar black dog pokes his head around Caine’s side with a hopeful whimper, only to have his muzzle shoved back.

I blink.

"You left," Caine says, and if I didn’t know he’s a psychotic serial killer, I’d think he’s a wounded husband hunting down his wife after coming home to signed divorce papers or something. He sounds so... betrayed.

Maybe it’s my imagination.

It’s doing a lot of things right now. My mind’s even insisting his stare lacks the razor-sharp edge I remember from our previous encounters. The tightness around his mouth has softened, and the crease in his brow isn’t as deep. Even his lips are soft, his jaw relaxed instead of clenched.

Like I’m watching him through some kind of photo filter.

I shake my head, trying to kick out all these strange thoughts. It’s hard to think clearly, and my heart keeps hammering against my ribcage in a distracting rhythm. Blaming it on fear would be nice, but my body’s all ooh and ahh over his damn cologne-ad smell, which is probably what’s doing it.

Whatever it is, it’s toxic to my intelligence. I swear I’ve been thinking just fine the past two days without him around, and now my hips are wiggling just a little where I sit, trying to ease the pressure down under.

My brain and body are not on the same wavelength, and this is a huge problem. Have I turned into some sort of pack bunny, after all? Is it possible to lust over a man’s body like I have no purpose in life beyond being his vapid sex doll? I mean, even Rafe didn’t have this effect on me.

His hand lifts slowly, giving me plenty of time to flinch away, but I’m frozen. His fingers brush against my cheek with unexpected gentleness, and I stop breathing altogether.

"Grace," he says, my name sounding so soft and delicate when it comes out of his mouth.

The calloused pad of his thumb skims my skin with such delicacy it might as well be a whisper. My eyelids flutter against my will as his touch travels to a strand of my newly blonde hair.

He tucks it behind my ear, his fingertips lingering at the sensitive skin just below my earlobe.

Lyre clears her throat, and I jump, the strange, overly sexual connection between us fizzling. Shoving Caine’s hand away, I blink a few times to clear my vision.

But he still looks all soft and gentle and not murderous, which is just... not right.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, doing my best to sound like his presence is unwanted. Which it is. Definitely. Even if my body doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo, despite being marked urgent.

"You left," he repeats, as if that explains everything.

It doesn’t.

The black dog—no, wolf—peeks around Caine again with a soft whine, his gray eyes familiar.

Fenris.

The recognition is instantaneous without attraction hazing my thought process, and I have to suppress a hysterical laugh. The massive, otherworldly wolf has somehow been reduced to what looks like an all-black German Shepherd.

Lyre clears her throat again from where she’s leaning against the wall. "So, this is who you’re running from."

Caine doesn’t even glance in her direction, his attention fixed entirely on me. "Are you hurt?" His eyes dart to my wrist, which hasn’t been wrapped since my first night with Lyre.

"What? No. I’m fine." My brain scrambles to make sense of his presence, of his demeanor, of the fact that he’s kneeling before me in this tiny camper with an expression I can’t decipher. Intrusive thoughts about us being naked—together—try to horn in, but I shove them away without remorse.

Is there medicine to fix my imagination? I’m in desperate need of a lifetime supply of it.

"Why are you here? How did you find me?"

His jaw tightens slightly. "You left without telling me where you were going."

I nod. "Yes, I know."

His eyes tighten. His entire face tenses, the now-familiar Lycan King mask returning to place, hard and cold. "I’m here to bring you back."

"No, thank you." Heat rises to my face as I struggle to remain composed. Thankfully, all the inappropriate thoughts have flown off with my rising irritation. "I’m not your prisoner."

"We discussed this."

"You discussed it. I disagree with the facts."

His jaw tightens, the muscle there flexing beneath his skin. He looks different somehow. More dangerous, yet also more human. His dark hair is mussed, as if he’s been running his hands through it, and there are dark circles under his eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping well.

"Who is she?" He jerks his chin toward Lyre without looking at her.

"Lyre." She answers before I can, her voice light but edged. "And you’re in my home without an invitation."

Caine still doesn’t turn. "You took what belongs to me."

I frown. "I don’t belong to anyone."

His nostrils flare. "Why do you smell like coconuts?"