Grace of a Wolf-Chapter 55: Grace: Sympathy For a Wolf

Lyre won’t stop staring in the direction of Andrew’s camp lot, even after closing the blinds. She can’t even see through the black fabric, so I’m not sure why she keeps looking over there.

Every few minutes, she lifts the blinds and peeks underneath, only to close them again. But she’s so nonchalant about it, like it’s something people do on a daily basis.

It’s not. Even I know that.

I’m about to ask her what she’s looking for when she suddenly drops her head with a long, heavy sigh that makes me jump.

"Your boyfriend’s lost it." Her voice sounds almost bored, but her fingers tap rapidly against her thigh.

I blink, and my stomach plummets to the vicinity of my toes. "Rafe’s my ex. Is he really here?"

Lyre turns to me with an expression so flat it could level mountains. Her left eyebrow wings up after a few seconds, and her tapping speeds up.

It seems like I’m missing something.

"What?" I ask, genuinely confused.

"I never thought I’d feel sympathy for a wolf." Her nose wrinkles. "Yet here we are."

This doesn’t sound good. "Is Caine... Did he... is Rafe dead?"

I step closer, a little panicked now. Much like Andrew, I don’t really want Rafe’s life on my hands. I also never want to see him again. Obviously, his death would fulfill my wish, but it would leave me with a whole ton of guilt I’m not willing to shoulder.

Guilt means remembering.

I don’t want to remember any of it.

Lyre raises her hand, palm out, and I freeze. "Stop. Just stop talking." Her eyes flick toward the door, then back to me, still tapping away. "I guess I need to move things along before this gets worse."

"Before what gets worse?"

But Lyre doesn’t answer; you’d think I’d be getting used to it by now. I’m not. Instead, she straightens her spine, squares her shoulders, and marches directly to the door. I barely have time to process what’s happening before she shoves it open with enough force it slams against the side of the camper.

"Stop that," she commands to whoever’s outside. "Grace can’t breathe."

My hands fly to my throat reflexively. I look down at my chest as if I might actually see my lungs malfunctioning, but... everything seems normal? My breathing is steady, if a bit quick with anxiety. I’m not gasping or struggling for air.

I peer around Lyre’s slim frame and immediately wish I hadn’t.

Jack-Eye, Andrew, and the stranger I’d seen earlier are on the ground. The beta is on his knees, but the other two are flat on the ground. If anyone’s having problems breathing, it’s them—not me.

It only takes a second to recognize what’s happening. I’ve already seen it once before, after all.

But I feel... nothing. No pressure, no compulsion to kneel, no difficulty breathing. No hint of Caine’s dominance touches me. Or Lyre, apparently.

"I’m breathing fine," I whisper to Lyre, who makes a shooing gesture behind her back. I guess my input is unnecessary.

"Grace...?" Caine says, sounding strange. Distant.

Lyre spins toward me, mouth set in a stern line. She holds a palm up, mouthing "stay right here" before backing down the camper steps. She does it with such ease, like she has eyes in the back of her head.

I strain to hear what’s happening outside, but the wind brings her voice right to me.

"Grace is inside. Don’t you want to check on her?"

Is Lyre talking to Caine? Or is she talking to Rafe? And if it is Rafe, where is he? I didn’t see him out there.

Screw it. I peek around the doorway again, only to verify Lyre is talking to Caine—whose eyes meet mine almost immediately.

He shoves Lyre aside without ceremony, storming forward. His weight on the stairs sways the RV. When he ducks through the doorway to come inside, my mouth goes dry.

The door slams shut behind him; he didn’t do it. Lyre, I guess.

Now I’m alone with him. So much for being on my side. First Fenris, now Lyre, both abandoning me in my time of need.

Caine’s presence has always been overwhelming, but now he looks positively feral. Veins stand out against his neck. His eyes have darkened to storm clouds, and his jaw clenches so hard I can almost hear his teeth grinding together. Even his breathing is loud, heavy and rough.

Every inch of him radiates barely contained violence.

He stalks toward me, and I flinch back instinctively.

"Um, hi?" The word’s more of a squeak anything else, but he doesn’t respond, much less blink.

His legs eat up the distance between us in long strides as I retreat, hands behind me feeling for obstacles. The small space of the camper suddenly feels like a trap. My lower back hits something solid—the entertainment center—and panic flutters in my chest.

Nowhere to run.

Before I can dodge sideways, Caine’s hands shoot out. He yanks me against him with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs. One arm bands around my waist like steel while the other hand cradles the back of my head, yanking it to the side as he buries his face into the crook of my neck.

His breath scorches my skin as he inhales deeply, over and over, his chest expanding against mine with each desperate breath.

My arms hover awkwardly in the air, fingers spread like starfish. I have no idea what to do with my hands. Pat his back? Push him away? Both options seem equally dangerous.

Once again, I’m reminded of a simple fact. The Lycan King is unhinged.

The tip of his nose traces a line up to the sensitive spot behind my ear, and I can’t suppress a shiver. His grip tightens even further, crushing me against the hard plane of his chest.

"I’m breathing fine," I get out, my voice higher than normal. "But if you keep squeezing me like this, I won’t be for long."

Something strange happens then. The rigid tension in his body relaxes. Not completely, but enough to ease the crushing pressure of his embrace. The arm around my waist loosens slightly. The hand at the back of my head becomes less demanding, more cradling. His breathing, which had been ragged and harsh, gradually slows to match mine.

Cautiously, I let my hands settle on his shoulders. His muscles feel like granite beneath my palms, but even as I touch him, they soften.

"Are you okay?"

Caine makes a sound deep in his throat. Not quite a growl, not quite a sigh. His lips brush against my pulse point when he speaks. "No."

Oh.

"It isn’t enough," he adds, but his words don’t match his actions as he takes a step back, letting me go.

"What isn’t—ah!"

The sound bursts from my throat—a half scream, half gasp—as the fabric of my shirt gives way without resistance. Yeah, Caine let me go. But then he’d lifted his hand to my collar, and...

Well, there goes Lyre’s band shirt.

I glance down in shock, my mind struggling to process what just happened. Air brushes against my skin, leaving goosebumps. Three clean slices run from my collar all the way down to the hem. Not torn by hands, but by—

Claws.

The shredded fabric hangs limply from my shoulders, revealing a plain beige bra and my bare stomach. "What are you—?"

"Shh." Caine’s doesn’t even pretend to care about my reaction as his large hands grip what remains of my shirt and shove the fabric down my arms in one smooth motion. The tattered remnant of my shirt pools at my feet, leaving me nearly naked from the waist up.

"W-Wait. What are you..."

My words die in my throat as Caine yanks his own shirt over his head in a single fluid movement, revealing a torso mapped with intricate tattoos. They curl and wind across his skin like ancient text.

Fuck.

His muscles are fabulous.

His shirt joins mine on the floor, looking like the steamy leadup in to a sex scene in basically any romantic comedy ever made.

My brain ditches sanity.

I’m supposed to be protesting, telling him he can’t just tear my shirt off. Instead, my eyes linger on the tapering line of hair leading from his belly button and trailing down to—

No, no. His eyes are attached to his face. Not down there. Have some decency, Grace. Don’t be that girl.

Caine pulls me against him again with a soft groan. My bare skin connects with his. My intelligence retires. My body sells its soul.

And my hands press flat against his chest, caught between us as he shoves his face into my neck again, breathing like he’s oxygen-deprived.

Jesus. I’m standing here naked against my will and letting a man salivate all over my neck. I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to be enjoying this.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?" My protest is more of an obligation than what I really want, and my hands curl against the hard planes of muscle they’re shoved against. So warm.

"Breathing," he murmurs, puffing out hot breath with each syllable.

Oh. Yep. I like that a lot, too.

Shouldn’t.

Can’t.

Mustn’t.

But I do.

His hands span my lower back, pressing me against him, but they don’t wander. They stay firmly in place, almost... respectful in their stillness.

Despite, you know, literally stripping me without consent.

"Need this," he says, grazing his teeth against my skin. "Need you."

Caine inhales deeply, over and over, like a drowning man finally breaking the surface. Each breath sounds desperate and ragged.