Page 15 of Grace of a Wolf 2
"What do you mean?"
She shakes her head. "He has a lot of work ahead of him, that's all. And he doesn't seem emotionally intelligent enough to navigate the maze in your head."
I rub at the tip of my nose awkwardly, still overwhelmed by feelings of embarrassment. Once I accepted her premise—Caine and I being fated—some of her earlier comments made a lot of sense, too. The ones about my intelligence level. Like when she asked about my grades in school.
At the time, I was oblivious. Maybe on purpose, refusing to see what was in front of my face. Now, I know precisely what she meant when she asked me that question. It's enough to make a girl feel… you know. Stupid.
"Tell me something, Grace. Why did the Lycan King kill your pack?"
"I don't know."
Lyre's slitted eyes narrow as she leans forward. "Really? Do you really not know? Or are you just not wanting to think about it?"
My fingers twist in the thin hospital blanket.
"I—"
Memories I've tried to sidestep keep rushing forward. Caine's face. His hand on my neck. The weight of his dominance crushing the room. Fenris, appearing out of nowhere. The way Caine was furious every time Alpha… no, Brax, screamed at me.
I close my eyes, forcing myself to remember the conversation that preceded the slaughter. The words. The tone. The subtle shifts in body language I'd noticed but hadn't understood.
Caine must have already known then what I only learned today.
My eyes open, and I stare at Lyre with crushing melancholy. "He did it because of me," I whisper, the realization unfurling like a poisonous flower in my chest. My lungs constrict.
"What?"
"He killed my entire pack because Brax hurt me."
A hot tear escapes, trailing down my cheek. Then another. And another. The weight of it crushes me—all those lives.
All dead.
Because of me.
Lyre jumps up from her chair, panic flashing across her face. "Hey, are you okay?"
My chest heaves with suppressed sobs. "He killed Alpha because of me! And everyone else, too! They're all dead because of me!"
My voice rises to a near-wail. The heart monitor beside me beeps frantically as my pulse races.
Lyre's hand lands awkwardly on my back, patting in a rhythm that's more confused than comforting. Her other hand scrambles for the remote the nurses set on my bed, and she presses the red call button.
I hiccup, then sob harder.
"Breathe," she says, patting a little firmer. "Calm down. It's not your fault. None of it is your fault. I wasn't trying to make you think it was."
"But if it wasn't for—" hic "—me, they'd all…"
"They were bad people, weren't they? So does it even matter? It isn't worth being upset when trash takes itself out."
I burst into full-on tears.
"Shit," she mutters. "That backfired."
Chapter seven
Grace: Cultural Differences
