Grace of a Wolf

Chapter 141: Caine: Brat vs Brot

CAINE

"We’re firing up the grill tonight," the old woman says, patting her husband’s arm affectionately. "Got some ribs marinating since this morning. You folks should join us!"

Grace stutters beside me, her cheeks flushing as her eyes dart from me to our new, extra-friendly neighbors. "Oh, that’s—"

"Is there gonna be BRAT-worsts?" Jer interrupts, bouncing on his toes with a manic energy that makes me wonder if he’s capable of standing still for longer than three seconds.

Grace whispers, "It’s brot—not brat."

The kid crosses his arms, defiant as he frowns at Grace. He has spunk, but he’s going to need to learn not to cross a Luna so easily. "I like bratwurst."

"You should at least say the word right," Sara mutters, conveniently placing Jer between her and Fenris. She probably doesn’t think anyone notices, but I do.

Most parents would probably be displeased at the idea one of their children would willingly sacrifice the other, but my lips quirk. A little sibling rivalry goes a long way to character development. It isn’t as if Fenris would hurt the children, but if he were truly an unstable wolf, it would be a lesson well-learned for the younger boy. Never ignore the unstable wolf beside you.

Ron clears his throat, scratching at his head as he says, "Oh, we don’t like to impose."

He acts too old for his age, and I frown. He could do with a few pups his age. It’s time for him to get into a little trouble and learn his own way, not spend his time watching over the children. Jack-Eye has a large family; I’m sure he has a nephew or cousin to take Ron in.

"Right, right!" Grace adds quickly, nodding too enthusiastically. "We wouldn’t want to impose."

The old man waves a weathered hand. "Nonsense! We love company."

Jer’s eyes light up again. "Are we gonna stick the brats on sticks? Over fire?"

"Brots," Sara hisses, smacking him in the shoulder. Then she freezes and looks at Fenris.

I chuckle, and she jumps a little, slowly turning around to peek in my direction. She looks worried, and I smile at her.

Somehow, it makes it all worse, and she dashes over to Ron’s side, clinging to his hand.

The old man laughs at Jer, a full-bellied sound of a kind and gentle soul. "Sure thing, boy!"

Grace’s smile strains as she shoots me a sideways glance. Her cheeks are flushed red from the commotion, and the slightly sour scent of anxiety rolls off her in waves thick enough to taste.

Bun reaches for her, but I shift her to my other side, patting her diapered behind again. She grunts and settles into her thumb-sucking with extra ferocity, looking particularly grumpy.

I inhale deeply, trying to place the old couple’s scent. There’s something... not quite human about it. Not shifter, exactly. More like... Owen.

Yes, they smell like Owen, Fenris agrees. But not like family.

They’re not human, and yet they’re posing as such. They should be able to recognize our lack of humanity, so it makes no sense for them to continue this pretense.

Better to figure them out now.

"We’d appreciate it," I cut in smoothly, watching Grace blink as I accept their invitation. She doesn’t seem to think I’m capable of interacting with others.

Considering how you met, this should be obvious, Fenris mutters. I can still feel him sulking over the mutt comment.

Ignoring him, I continue, "We’re still settling in, and this storm’s only made it harder. It’s our first time taking this rig out with the family."

Ron gives me a long, confused look. Sara goes a little pale beside him, mouthing "family?" at him with wide eyes.

The old couple either doesn’t notice, or pretends not to.

Jer, completely unconcerned with the nuances of our strange social dynamics, throws a fist in the air and roars, "FIRE!" before taking off, heading toward the old couple’s camper. The golden retriever bounds after him, tail wagging enthusiastically.

"Come back!" Grace yells after him, panicking. It’s easy to tell by the way her hands flutter around and she spins between me, Jer, and the elderly couple, clearly uncertain if she should apologize, wait for me to handle it, or run after him.

The old couple just laugh, completely unperturbed by the chaos. "Let the child run," the old lady says with a dismissive wave. "It’s good for them."

"Oh, but..." She looks back at me, and I nod.

Everything’s okay.

But for some reason she just looks more distressed after I try to reassure her.

Again, considering your history of behavior—

Lay off, Fenris.

"This’ll be so helpful, you coming," the old lady continues, patting her husband’s arm as she beams. "We always make too much. Big fridge, you know. We’re used to larger family affairs. He always says I cook like I’m making food for an entire army."

Grace laughs awkwardly, the sound pitched a little too high to be natural. Her eyes continue to dart between the old couple, the retreating back of Jer, and me.

I slide my arm behind her, not quite touching but close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body. It’s an exquisite torture. "Let’s go, dear."

An even deeper flush spreads across her cheeks at the endearment, her eyes widening slightly. I’ve never called her that before. It feels good.

A little human, but... good.

"How sweet," the old woman coos, patting her husband’s shoulder again. He must bruise with how often she does it. "Remember when we were like that, dear?"

Grace twitches a little at her use of dear but just remains staring at me, looking somewhat dazed.

Humans love their pet names. Mate would be my choice, though.

Sweetheart, honey, babe, baby. These are your choices. And for the sake of all the gods above and my sanity, do not call her Muffin.noveldrama

Hmm. I’d never considered it, but Muffin would be—

No.

I frown a little, freezing the expression when Grace jerks again. Have to watch my face around her. Honey and baby are on the list, but not Muffin? How does that add up?

Don’t bother questioning me. You’d never understand.

Fenris lopes off, catching up to Jer and Sadie with swift ease, and I return my attention to the now-stiff woman beside me. She looks almost panicked. If our lives depended on subterfuge... she would definitely give it all away.

Cute.

But we might need to work on that.

The Lycan King doesn’t always announce his presence, after all. And as my Luna and Queen, she would be in too much danger if I wasn’t by her side.

Don’t underestimate her. She’ll be fine once she stops worrying about your sanity.

I frown again, my mouth freezing as soon as I realize I am. Instead, I try to smile at my mate, who’s still staring at me with concern. What do you mean?

You’re being too sweet and neighborly, and far too affectionate. It’s confusing her.

I am perfectly capable of sweet. And neighborly. I run an entire pack, and visit several more in a single month alone. As far as affection, I’ve been showing it as best as I can since accepting her as my mate—

Yes, yes. You’re just a beacon of humanity.

I can’t help the slight shudder of revulsion at his words.

Exactly. You’re acting human, and it’s weird.

Ah. Now I understand.

Grace prefers a Lycan to a human; acting like one throws her off. My slightly cringed shoulders ease. Well, who wouldn’t prefer a Lycan to a human? Of course, I’d never choose a she-wolf over her...

That’s not what—you know what? Never mind.

"Uh, let me just change Bun’s diaper first," Grace stammers, holding out her hands. She’s no longer frozen, but she won’t meet my eyes.

The toddler’s been trying to lean across my body to reach her, frustrated when I keep holding her back.

Ron, picking up on her distress, steps forward. "I’ll do it." He plucks Bun from my arms with practiced ease and heads back toward the camper without another word.

"Sweet kid," the old man announces, like we don’t already know that. My parental pride wars with parental annoyance.

"He’s a good one," I agree politely, and Sara stares at me with huge eyes. I smile at her. She looks at Ron’s back, then turns and runs after her little brother, instead.

I drop my arm as we begin walking, following the old couple at a safe distance. Grace’s hand swings by her side, her fingers occasionally brushing against the fabric of her pants. The urge to reach for it, to tangle my fingers with hers, is strong.

I clench my fist instead. The image of her lying pale and unconscious on Lyre’s bed flashes in my mind—a stark reminder of what happens when we get too close.

Maybe when she’s rested and stronger. Maybe then.

She looks so tired. The shadows beneath her eyes have deepened, and her skin lacks its usual glow. Her shoulders slump forward slightly, like she’s carrying an invisible weight. She needs real food. Water. Rest. And she probably doesn’t even realize it.

The old lady loops her arm through Grace’s cheerfully, launching into a story about her grandchildren I only half listen to. My mate smiles politely, but I can see the tension in her jaw, the slight crease between her brows as she looks back at me.

My teeth clench as I watch them. The old woman’s grip looks gentle, but there’s something proprietary about it, making me bristle.

But I can’t just kick an old lady. It would horrify Grace.

You’re finally learning. Congratulations.

But maybe I can kick my wolf.