Page 95 of Grace of a Wolf 1
"No, you're not." Lyre straightens, her voice taking on a formal cadence. "Grace is a legal adult in the eyes of human society. She has the right to go where she wants and live how she chooses."
Caine's eyes flick to mine, then back to her. "She has no resources. No support system."
"She has me," Lyre says simply.
"Yes, and…" His lip curls in a faint snarl. "Who are you?"
"Someone who dislikes the overbearing ego of werewolves."
The air between them crackles with tension. Fenris, on the other hand, seems irritated with Caine, nipping at his thigh when he keeps getting batted away from his hip. Finally, he flops onto his belly and crawls between their feet.
I peer under the table to see his eyes blinking at me. Another few inches and he's finally close enough to plop his head into my lap with a soft chuff. I rub his ears, forgetting for a second his status as a traitor.
"Grace needs protection," Caine insists, his voice softer now but no less intense. "I'm here to help her get settled into human society comfortably. There's no reason for her to suffer for the actions of one of my packs."
"Mmm." Lyre hums. "Sounds like a convenient way of saying you don't actually have a valid reason."
"It's my responsibility to ensure—"
Something clicks in my brain. A missing piece of this bizarre puzzle suddenly registers, and I jolt upright in my seat.
"Andrew! Did you kill Andrew?"
How could I have forgotten about Andrew? He's in a tent right next to us. There's no way the Lycan King missed his presence.
Caine's expression shifts, the hard lines of his face softening into something disturbingly like satisfaction. "I didnotkill Andrew," he says with an odd little smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
I exchange a glance with Lyre. Her slitted eyes narrow slightly, a silent message passing between us. Something's off about his answer—he's too pleased with himself.
"I also didn't kill the Forest Springs Alpha," he adds quickly, his hands spread wide in a gesture which seems meant to be reassuring but feels more performative.
Fenris shifts his massive head in my lap, releasing a derisive snort. The reality of what Caine's saying finally registers. He's listing people he specificallydidn'tkill—which suggests...
"So no one's died, right?" I press, searching his face for confirmation.
Caine's stormy eyes slide away from mine, finding sudden interest in the garish pattern of Lyre's curtains. My stomach drops. The way he can't meet my gaze tells me everything I need to know.
A cold shudder ripples down my spine. He's lying to me.
Without thinking, I scramble over Lyre, ignoring her startled "Hey!" as I push past her and the Lycan King's broad frame. My elbow connects with his solid chest, but he barely budges. I have to shoulder my way around him, my heart thundering in my ears as I dash for the door.
Humid night air hits my face as I burst outside, my eyes frantically scanning the darkness for any sign of Andrew. I need to see him. Need to know he's okay. Need to—
I come to such an abrupt halt I nearly topple forward.
The red-haired Lycan—Jack-Eye, I remember—stands a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest as he smirks. But what's happening next to him stops me cold. Andrew is on the ground, his body contorted into what can only be described as a plank position, except his butt is hiked comically high in the air. His face is pressed into the dirt, arms at his sides, looking for all the world like he's doing the world's most uncomfortable push-up.
Relief floods through me, so powerful it makes my knees weak. He's alive. Humiliated, apparently being punished in some bizarre wolf way, but alive.
"Are youthathappy to see he's still alive?"
Caine's voice comes from directly behind me, low and displeased. I hadn't heard him follow, but now I can feel the heat radiating from his body, separated from my back by the barest sliver of space. His breath disturbs the hair at the nape of my neck, sending an involuntary shiver across my skin.
"Of course," I mumble, taking a step away. He just moves closer, though, rendering the slight movement moot.
"Why?" he demands.
Chapter fifty
