Page 83 of Grace of a Wolf 1
Oh? This is new. My mind races with possibilities—is she meeting someone dangerous? Planning something nefarious? A one-night stand…?
Okay, the last one is probably not it, but as I stare at Lyre, I think I understand. "Is whatever you're doing illegal?"
Andrew's eyes widen.
Lyre's expression doesn't change. Not a flicker of guilt, not a hint of surprise at my directness. Her eyes remain fixed on mine, unnervingly steady, and she doesn't give me an answer.
That's probably… the answer, right?
Interesting. Lyre's some sort of criminal. Her free nomad lifestyle suddenly makes a lot of sense.
"Are you done eating?" she asks, nodding toward my half-finished burger.
The deflection is as clear as a neon sign, but I want to know. "You didn't answer my question," I press, unwilling to let it drop. She doesn't seem angry, so it's likely she isn't telling me for my own safety.
"You didn't answer mine," she counters smoothly.
Andrew clears his throat. "Maybe we should—"
"Shut up," Lyre and I say in unison, neither of us breaking eye contact.
The silence stretches for a few more minutes before I give in. Prying into her business is rude, especially when she's the one doing me favors. I've brought nothing but a stalker to the table.
"Yes, I'm done eating," I sigh.
Chapter forty-three
Grace: Scars
The campground is a little place about five miles off the highway, surrounded by trees. It's like a sardine tin of RVs, but we're lucky enough to have an empty spot beside ours.
Of course, it isn't empty anymore—Andrew's taken it. Apparently, he has a tent, too.
With all the slides extended, Lyre's camper transforms from cramped travel mode to something that could rival a small apartment. The living area in the back boasts two plush couches and a daybed, arranged in a U-shape around a TV that looksabsurdly large when you consider we are technically camping. The Wi-Fi signal from the campground is surprisingly strong, and once Lyre leaves for her mysterious errand, I spend hours browsing through her streaming accounts.
I flip mindlessly through shows I've never heard of, content to let a few hours slip by. She's forbidden me from leaving the camper, warning me not to let anyone in, leaving me itching a little over the feeling of being confined. How easily I trade one form of captivity for another. At least this prison comes with Netflix. Besides, Lyre isn't about to kill me.
I'm at least ninety percent certain, anyway. There's always the ten percent she's waiting for me to let my guard down before chopping me to bits, but it's a risk I've already taken at this point.
The rest of my day wastes away in a blur of fictional dramas far less complicated than my life, yet riveting. As evening shadows stretch across the campground, the familiar rumble of Lyre's truck engine announces her return. The door swings open moments later, bringing with it the savory aroma of Chinese food.
"Hungry?" Lyre asks, triumphant smile brightening her face as she holds up a paper bag heavy with takeout containers.
My stomach growls in response. I haven't eaten since the truck stop burger. While Lyre gave me full permission to raid her pantry and fridge, it felt odd to do it while she was gone.
"I brought you something else too." She passes me a small brown paper bag.
I peer inside, finding what appears to be an artisanal jar of body butter. When I unscrew the lid, the sweet scent of coconut wafts up, rich and tropical.
"Scar treatment," Lyre explains, setting the food on the counter and beginning to unpack it. "For your back."
I freeze, the jar suspended halfway to my nose. "My back?"
"You were whipped, right?" She says it so casually, like commenting on the weather. "It's for those scars."
Blood drains from my face. She's never seen me shirtless. "How do you know about that?"
Lyre glances over her shoulder, expression neutral. "I saw them when I was helping you wash out the bleach. Through the gap here." She points at the back of her shirt collar. "Hard to miss."
