Grace of a Wolf-Chapter 81: Grace: Strawberries (II)

"Almost done, Bun." I rub a threadbare towel over her damp curls, careful not to tug. She giggles and stomps.

So. Freaking. Cute.

A pipe juts from the cave wall, spouting fresh water. Its source? No clue—maybe a spring somewhere. Whoever built this place balanced primitive with practical.

Her bath took place in a large brown basin—smaller than a kiddie pool, bigger than any basin I’ve ever seen. The water’s gone gray-pink from scrubbing off the strawberry massacre. The juices had run straight through her outfit.

Since the toddler seems intent on spending as much time as possible in my lap, having long ago realized I’m not a hungry dragon out to eat her, I asked Owen if she needed a bath. The man apparently thought it meant I wanted to give her a bath.

I didn’t, but it isn’t like anyone else offered, and now here I am—no relevant childcare experience, bathing a strange toddler in a cave after being pseudo (?) kidnapped.

I’m sure stranger things have happened in this world, but I can’t really imagine it.

Bun squirms and I pull the towel off, blinking at the actual, real life, honest-to-goodness fluffy white bunny ears popping out of her head.

They weren’t there just minutes before.

Shifter, then. Bunny shifter?

She looks shy, twisting her tiny little ham fists together in front of her as she peeks up. Is she old enough to worry about my response to her ears? My heart breaks a little at the thought.

"Hold still, sweetie." The endearment slips out naturally, and her giant, dark eyes glimmer with trust as I pat the last of the droplets from her chubby legs.

Behind us, Jer and Sara are using wet rags to clean up the sticky strawberry disaster while Ron supervises them with crossed arms. Must be the benefit of being the oldest, not having to do the actual work.

The kids are grumbling.

"Why did we have to clean it?" Jer hisses. "She made the mess."

"Because she’s a baby, dummy." Sara, sounding disgusted by the question.

"So? She’s always making messes. Owen will clean it later, anyway."

"Royalty doesn’t live with pigs, Jer." Ron. Then a thunking sound, and—

"Ow! Why’d you hit me, Ron?"

"To kickstart your brain, Jeridiot. You missed a whole strawberry over there."

"Brains aren’t motors," Sara says primly. "Besides, Owen said no hitting."

"The strawberry’s on Sara’s side of the floor," Jer protests.

The stone walls amplify their bickering.

Scooping the bunny-eared Bun into my arms, I step out of the little bathroom/washroom section of the cave.

Owen moves between his workstation and the high rock shelf, arranging his latest batch of tanghulu creations where tiny hands can’t reach, turning it into a strange strawberry bouquet with some sort of wide metal cup as a vase.

Not once does he look over at me or the children, yet I sense he’s aware of everything happening.

My kidnapper. My... rescuer? The jury’s still out.

Bun pats my cheek with her water-wrinkled fingers, drawing my attention back to her. Some primal instinct in me responds to her neediness, even though I’ve never been around children much. Humans weren’t trusted with wolf cubs.

Alpha always said it was to keep me from getting hurt on accident due to their enhanced physical strength, but... well, let’s say I’m doubting a lot of things these days.

"All clean now?" I ask her.

She responds with unintelligible babble and a decisive nod.

Owen approaches with a small bundle in his arms—clothes and a diaper for Bun. I don’t even know where he got them from. A second ago he was sticking sticks of sugar-coated strawberries in a cup.

His face remains expressionless as he hands them over.

My heart thumps against my ribcage; I was going to ask him a little later, but maybe now is good.

"Hey, um—" I clear my throat, aiming for casual. "Could I maybe borrow your phone? To call my friends?" I swallow. "They’re probably worried."

He studies me for a long moment, dark eyes unreadable. Then, without a word, he nods and walks away. Just like that.

I exhale slowly. Not a no. His easy agreement catches me off guard—I’d prepared for resistance, excuses, threats. The kids said he was rescuing us, but it doesn’t mean the guy isn’t a giant, stone-faced liar.

Something inside me unclenches. He really doesn’t mean me any harm.

He’s still weird, but at least I’m not trapped. I’ll just call Lyre and have her find me. Easy. And maybe she can get some answers out of the big lug.

I hum a little as I dress Bun in a faded yellow onesie with cartoon ducks printed across the front. It’s well-worn but clean, like everything else here. She cooperates by thrusting her arms up when needed, though she squirms impatiently as I navigate the diaper.

Three tiny snaps and she’s fully clothed once again.

"All done," I announce, and she immediately scrambles to her feet, toddling toward the other children with surprising speed. They panic, still wiping up mushed berry.

Owen returns, phone in one hand. With his other arm, he scoops up Bun mid-stride. She squeals in delight as he hoists her onto his hip, and Jer lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief.

He holds out his phone—an older model with a cracked screen—then disappears around a curve in the cave wall, Bun peering over his shoulder with curious eyes.

My fingers tremble as I stare at the blank screen. Freedom is literally in my hands now. I can call for help. I can let Lyre know I’m okay.

I press the power button. The screen flickers to life, showing a generic background and the time: 9:49 PM. No password protection. No fancy security.

I tap the phone icon, and the keypad appears.

And then reality hits me like a bucket of ice water.

I don’t know anyone’s number.

Not Lyre’s. Not Caine’s. Not even Andrew’s.

I know Rafe’s, but I’m not calling him even with my life on the line. Rotten ropes can never be trusted.

My mind scrambles through memories, searching for digits, for anything. But there’s nothing. The modern era has provided us with the ever-convenient contact list and cell phone memory, which means none of it is stored in my head.

I don’t even know my own number. It’s an old phone of Lyre’s.

The keypad swims as tears gather. I could call 911, but I’m now mostly convinced Owen isn’t a terrible person, and these kids keep talking about blood witches and the Great One. It all sounds very fantasy novel-esque, but supernaturals do exist in this world, so it would be stupid to dismiss their concerns out of hand.

And humans can’t fight supernaturals. At least, not easily.

Biting my lip, I press a few numbers. Seven something? Seven-three... no. Damn. I can’t even remember the area code.

The screen dims from inactivity, then goes black.

I’ve never felt so trapped by goodwill.