Page 3 of Grace of a Wolf 2
Lyre meets my rage with a flat, unblinking stare. Those cat-slitted eyes don't waver, don't flinch. Something in her gaze—the absolute absence of fear—makes my anger shrivel like a flame doused with ice water.
It isn't from backing down.
It's from the blame her stare lays on my shoulders. Blame rightfully placed.
I did this, somehow.
"I never expected the big, bad Lycan King to be so fucking useless he'd drain his own mate," she says, her voice low and deliberate. "Guess that's on me for assuming basic competence."
Chapter two
Caine: Fiddleback
CAINE
"Put Grace down," Lyre says.
"No."
No,Fenris echoes.
My arms tighten around my limp mate, clutching her to my chest. I refuse to let her go. My lips press against her temple, feeling how cool her skin is. Her breathing's shallow. Her pulse is weak.
The thought of letting her go—even for a moment—stabs through me like silver.
"Put. Her. Down," Lyre orders, as if commanding the Lycan King is something she can do on a whim. "Your emotions are all over her right now. She doesn't need your panic seeping into what little energy she has left."
"No."
Lyre's slitted eyes narrow further. "Do youwantto kill her?"
Of course not. She's the other half of my soul. The fated connection I'd denied is burning bright in my chest, rattled by the thought of losing her.
Losing a mate is hard, but the thought of losing Grace is… impossible. Dying would be preferable.
Lyre sighs and stomps out of the room, shaking the camper with each step. A short while later, she's back, with a soft white t-shirt. "Here. You can put this on her."
Grace's torn shirt is still on the floor, and shame washes through me at the evidence of my lack of control. Everything that happened between us had been perfect, transcendent—until it wasn't.
Pathetic fool. I should have held back. It was obvious a human couldn't handle what we have between us.
She can handle it,Fenris insists.Something is wrong. It isn't our bond. The Goddess would not allow it.
With the greatest reluctance, I lower Grace back onto the bed. Lyre doesn't waste time, pushing in beside me to slip the shirt over Grace's head. She's like a ragdoll, without even a hint of resistance.
Even the scent of blueberries is faint, hard to pinpoint in the mix of other smells.
"I need to stay with her." My hands hover uselessly above Grace's still form. "I need to fix this."
"She'll be fine. She needs rest more than anything. But you…" Lyre frowns, smacking my hands away. "You have something else to do. Go put your clothes on."
I want to snap at this strange enigma of a woman, but Grace holds her in great affection. If I hurt her…
The thought of Grace's beautiful, grass-green eyes staring at me with accusation makes my stomach quiver. It seems I've acquired many new fears today.
Deciding upon magnanimity, I ignore Lyre's audacity and grab my shirt off the floor, pulling it on. The fabric feels restrictive, unwelcome against my skin.
A strange emptiness gnaws at me—something beyond the paralyzing fear of losing Grace. My body feels different. Lighter. As if something coiled within me for years has loosened its grip.
