Page 39 of Grace of a Wolf 1
He's holding my pillow to his face and sniffing it.
"What are you—why are you—what are you doing?!"
Outrage outweighs fear in this absurd moment, as I clutch the doorknob and stare into the eyes of this murderous stranger.
His cold gaze slowly lifts to mine as he takes a deep whiff.
My fingers flex and curl at my sides. The urge to snatch my pillow from his grasp wars with the instinct to stay perfectly still and keep from antagonizing a killer. And worse than either is the part of me wanting to get closer and sniff him back, bury myself in that cologne-ad scent of his.
It's like my mind's gone as insane as the man in front of me, even as it catalogues every part of his face to memory, while lamenting the fact he's clothed. Casual clothes, just like yesterday. Shirt. Pants. All black.
What am I thinking? The man's a murderer. What does it say about me, when my brain can be so obsessed with his beauty while the evidence of his misdeeds is literallypiledoutside this building?
His face remains buried in my pillow, and the silence stretches thin between us. Each inhale of his makes my skin crawl. What kind of person—king or not—breaks into someone's room to smell their pillow?
A psychotic person, that's who.
The mattress creaks as he finally sits up, gray eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that pins me in place. "I hate muffins."
I blink. Once. Twice. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
"Especially blueberry ones." His nose wrinkles with distaste.
What in the…? Why would I care about his breakfast preferences?
I want to point out that I didn't ask, or that this is the strangest conversation opener I've ever heard, but my throat closes up. Because this isn't just some weird guy with boundary issues. This is the Lycan King. The same one who had Fenris rip out Alpha's throat last night.
Maybe he's telling me because he plans to make me his slave? That makes sense, I guess. Doesn't explain why he's smelling my pillow, but one problem at a time.
So I stand here, dripping water onto the carpet, staring at him like he's speaking another language. Which, honestly, he might as well be.
The Lycan King crosses one leg over the other, his arm draped across his thigh with casual elegance that doesn't match the predatory gleam in his eyes.
Seconds continue to tick on as he doesn't move or blink.
My wet hair drips down my neck. The silence stretches until it feels like a physical thing between us, heavy and thick. I wonder if I'm going to die today, and the thought is almost casual as it flits through my head.
Fear is strangely distant, even as it keeps me frozen. Maybe it's shock. Does shock last this long?
"Your hair is brown," he says suddenly, and for some reason I actually roll my eyes up, like I'm trying to see for myself.
Of course my hair's brown. It's been brown since the day I was born. "Yes…"
"But your eyes are green."
My hand twitches; another strange reflex where I want to touch them, as if that will confirm his statement. "Ah—yes."
He grunts. "I thought they'd be blue. Like blueberries."
There's no particular animosity in the way he speaks or watches me, though my skin still crawls under his attention.
Maybe…
Maybe he's not evil, but just completely unhinged. The way he's fixated on my pillow, rambling about muffins? It reminds me of some of the more unstable wolves in the pack. The ones who go missing after a while, never to be seen again. Alpha said it was from spending too much time in their wolf form, where they lost touch with their human side.
I clear my throat. "Are you—is your name Caine?" May as well get that bit of curiosity out of my head.
He inclines his head in a slow, regal gesture. I think it's his way of saying yes, but it's the most arrogant way I've ever seen it done.
