Page 92 of Grace of a Wolf 1
"Eighty-six... eighty-seven..." She hasn't even glanced at the door again, her eyes closed as her lips continue to move soundlessly.
I'm sure it's Rafe out there, and am only surprised he isn't yelling and demanding for us to open up at this point.
Then again, it isn't like he knows Lyre, and we're in the middle of a human settlement, even if it isn't permanent homes. It would be awkward if the human authorities were called, I'm sure. We're far out of pack range; I have no idea whose territory we are in now, actually.
It isn't as if I was never taught about other territories, but there aresomany, and I had no reason to be interested in packs so far from ours. Only our neighbors and some of the larger packs are familiar names.
"Ninety-eight... ninety-nine... one hundred." Lyre pushes off from the wall and strolls to the door with deliberate slowness.
The knocking has become pounding now, the thin door shuddering in its frame.
Lyre yanks it open. "Yes?" Her voice could freeze a desert in an instant. "What exactly is so important that you felt entitled to damage my property?"
I take a long sip of cold soda, relishing the sweetness. Let Rafe stew out there. Let him explain himself to someone who doesn't care about his excuses. I'm looking forward to it; Lyre doesn't seem like the kind of person to deal with his arrogant attitude.
"I'm looking for Grace Harper."
The soda catches in my throat. Not Rafe's voice. It's deeper. Colder.
Caine.
I choke, sputtering as the liquid burns down the wrong pipe. My eyes tear with the pain.
There's a commotion—heavy footsteps, a wolf's snarl, Lyre protesting, and then there's Caine in front of me, his giant frame overpowering the tiny camper space. He kneels by my side, eyes locked on mine, storm-gray and intense. His oversized hand whacks at my back as if I'm choking on a peanut and not a sip of carbonated Coke.
My lungs seize with panic. I can't breathe. Can't speak. Can't do anything but stare at the Lycan King who murdered Alpha Brax kneeling in front of me in this ridiculous rainbow camper looking at me like—
His hand connects with my back again, delivering a firm smack between my shoulder blades. The impact dislodges the soda from my airway, and I cough again, the sound much less wet this time.
"Are you okay?" His voice sounds strangely gentle for a serial killer who's hunted down a runaway.
I gasp, finally drawing air. "What are you doing here?" The words are shrill and tinny, but at least they come out.
Caine's eyes narrow, scanning my face, my hair, my body. His nostrils flare slightly. "Your hair is blonde."
It's like deja vu, the way he comments on my appearance. My hand flies self-consciously to my now-blonde strands. "That doesn't answer my question."
Behind him, Lyre leans against the wall, her slitted eyes observing with unnerving calculation. She doesn't seem afraid of Caine, which strikes me as either incredibly brave or suicidally stupid.
A strangely familiar black dog pokes his head around Caine's side with a hopeful whimper, only to have his muzzle shoved back.
I blink.
"You left," Caine says, and if I didn't know he's a psychotic serial killer, I'd think he's a wounded husband hunting down his wife after coming home to signed divorce papers or something. He sounds so…betrayed.
Maybe it's my imagination.
It's doing a lot of things right now. My mind's even insisting his stare lacks the razor-sharp edge I remember from our previous encounters. The tightness around his mouth has softened, and the crease in his brow isn't as deep. Even his lips are soft, his jaw relaxed instead of clenched.
Like I'm watching him through some kind of photo filter.
I shake my head, trying to kick out all these strange thoughts. It's hard to think clearly, and my heart keeps hammering against my ribcage in a distracting rhythm. Blaming it on fear would be nice, but my body's alloohandahhover his damn cologne-ad smell, which is probably what's doing it.
Whatever it is, it's toxic to my intelligence. I swear I've been thinking just fine the past two days without him around, and now my hips are wiggling just a little where I sit, trying to ease the pressure down under.
My brain and body arenoton the same wavelength, and this is a huge problem. Have I turned into some sort of pack bunny,after all? Is it possible to lust over a man's body like I have no purpose in life beyond being his vapid sex doll? I mean, even Rafe didn't have this effect on me.
His hand lifts slowly, giving me plenty of time to flinch away, but I'm frozen. His fingers brush against my cheek with unexpected gentleness, and I stop breathing altogether.
