Grace of a Wolf-Chapter 92: Grace: Awkward Space

My body reacts before my brain even notices. I scramble backward like an awkward human crab, making it a foot away before my right wrist buckles out of nowhere.

My elbow crashes into the ground.

I adjust my position, trying to make my panicked retreat look casual.

I fail.

Spectacularly.

At least if I’m judging by the look on his face.

My cheeks are hot enough to light a fire.

Caine’s hand hangs suspended between us, frozen in mid-air. His face has transformed from brow-creased concern to wide-eyed bewilderment, like I just sprouted a second head.

He’s back to concern, but now it’s the kind of concern you give a kid after they faceplant a sidewalk.

"No touching, remember?" I manage, my voice hitting soprano when it’s usually a comfortable alto.

For a long moment, he stares at his outstretched hand like it’s not even his. Then he slowly brings it back to his side.

Tension thickens between us.

"Right," he mutters. "No touching."

I pull my knees tighter to my chest, wishing I could disappear into the stone floor.

"It’s not that I don’t—" I stop, feeling my face grow even hotter. How does one say yes, I’d like you to touch me without it sounding like a perverted invitation?

So I keep my mouth shut instead of finishing my sentence.

Fated connection or not, I still feel embarrassment. And awkwardness. And like we’re a little too close to feel like strangers now—especially since his hands have literally been in my pants, which is way out of stranger territory—but still feeling as if I don’t know the man at all.

We’ve fast-forwarded through the most basic part of a relationship: getting to know each other. Like, at all.

The things I know about Caine fit on one hand. One: Murderous instincts. Two: For some reason, he can manifest his wolf outside of his body. Three: His touches feel really good. Maybe too good. Four: He doesn’t like Lyre very much.

I’m sure there’s a five somewhere.

"You don’t have to explain," he says.

But I do. I really do. Because his jaw is doing that tense thing again, and his shoulders have gone rigid, and somehow I’ve managed to offend the most dangerous predator I’ve ever met by not letting him touch me.

"I just don’t want to end up back in the hospital," I say quickly. "The energy thing, remember? Lyre said we shouldn’t—"

"I remember," he cuts me off, his voice clipped.

It feels like I’ve done something wrong, which makes something inside my chest twist up into a spiral of anxiety. It’s hard to take a lungful of breath, and heat flushes through my scalp, making my hair prickle. "It isn’t because of you—"

"I know, Grace." His voice isn’t really softer, but some of the edge is gone. Closer to it than not.

Clearing my throat, I glance toward the alcove. At least the kids seem to have fallen asleep. It would be mortifying if they were watching all this unfold. Sara’s still convinced the Lycan King’s going to eat them all before morning, and his current aura would not help her fears.

"Anyway," I say, desperate to change the subject before this gets any more awkward. "You were explaining... about Blue Mountain."

Caine shifts, his massive shoulders rolling as if shaking off the moment. "Not much to explain. They suffered the proper consequences."

All of thirty seconds ago, he’d admitted his actions might have been extreme. Now he’s back to cold and indifferent.

I pinch my lips together. Maybe it’s better to be quiet, before I offend him further.

* * *

Silence settles between us, charged but not exactly uncomfortable. The distant sound of Bun’s soft breathing from the alcove and Ron’s occasional sleep-mumbling fills the cave.

Caine remains statue-still, his profile sharp against the dim light—all defined jaw and brooding eyes.

I’m making this worse by staying away.

The realization hits me with sudden clarity. His hand stretched out was an offering, and I scrambled away like he was contagious. Mate bond or not, energy drain or not, I’ve just hurt his feelings.

Something about it—this idea of a terrifying Lycan King having hurt feelings—makes my chest tighten.

With a slow breath, I slide closer until I’m sitting right beside him, our backs against the same wall. I don’t touch him—obeying the rule like a good girl—but I’ve closed the gap. Our arms are just inches apart now. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin.

He doesn’t move away. I don’t either.

"The Fiddleback Pack was strange."

His voice comes so suddenly and quietly that I almost miss it. I turn my head toward him, suddenly alert. This is it—he’s finally answering my first question about why he tore through the city like a hurricane, right?

"Strange how?"

He stares straight ahead, eyes focused on something I can’t see. The silence stretches for so long I think maybe he didn’t hear me, but then his hands clench. It’s a subtle movement, but I feel attuned to every last twitch of his muscles, every soft exhale of breath, and the growing need between us.

No physical contact didn’t seem like a big deal when Lyre mentioned it.

The reality is much different.

I underestimated how much I want to be with the man. Want to press myself against him. Want to feel his hands on my skin.

Something inside me keeps pulling...

No.

Pulling is too gentle. It’s more of a yank, hauling me around like a ragdoll, demanding I submit to this strange connection between us. It’s hazed my brain so it’s hard to think of anything else, until I’m willing to accept everything he throws my way.

Even if it’s more murder.

"So what happened?" I press gently, hoping against hope he has a good excuse this time.

Somehow, I feel like I wouldn’t care even if he didn’t. But the old Grace, normal, human Grace with morals and values who cares about people living and dying, is still inside my head beneath all the fated bond nuance, and she definitely cares. Sort of. Maybe.

Or I’m already too far gone.

He leans his head back with a sigh. "They’re dead. Most of them." The flat, emotionless delivery doesn’t even send a chill down my spine. Watching him out of my peripheral vision, I wait for him to continue.

"I’ll have to ask your friend what’s happening around here. She seems to know more than she’s willing to share."

My stomach knots. The way he says "your friend" makes it clear he means Lyre. I can’t help the spike of protective fear.

It’s good to know I’m still Grace, the person who cares about her friends, and won’t just throw Lyre under his claws in hopes of him getting his hands in my panties again.

"You’re not going to—"

"Not unless she gives me a reason," he cuts me off, his voice still unnervingly calm.

I nod, but the worry doesn’t leave my thoughts, even when I remind myself she literally... swooshed him across the room like it was nothing.

A sleepy whine from the alcove interrupts my thoughts.

Bun toddles out. Her tiny fists rub at her eyes as she makes her way toward us with the slightly off-balance gait of a small child who’s still mostly asleep.

Without hesitation, she flops directly into my lap face-first, landing with a dramatic sigh against my shirt like she’s had the most exhausting day in toddler history.

Then again, with all those shifts—yeah, she did. I’m pretty sure it wins, hands down.

"Hey there," I say softly, my hand automatically moving to stroke her back. "Back so soon?"

Bun answers with an incoherent toddler mumble, her face buried in my shirt. Her little body is warm against mine, completely trusting. Something shifts inside my chest, unfurling like a flower to the sun. Something deeper and more expansive than anything I can understand.

When I look up, I find Caine watching us. His expression isn’t exactly soft—I’m not sure his face does soft—but the hard edges have smoothed somehow. His eyes track my hand as it moves in gentle circles on Bun’s back.

"Are we keeping her?" he asks suddenly.

My hand freezes mid-circle. "What?"

"The child." His eyes flick to Bun, then back to me. "Are we taking her with us?"