Grace of a Wolf-Chapter 107: Grace: Creeping Dread

Bun screeches with unholy glee as her limbs morph and multiply—six insect legs sprouting where toddler legs should be, skittering across the stone floor at a speed no two-year-old should possess. Her laughter echoes off the cave walls, high and piercing and just a little bit wrong.

Under normal circumstances, I’d be having a freakout over a cute little toddler turning into something adjacent to the most unholy creature on this planet. But my brain’s elsewhere.

"Watch it!" Jer shouts as Bun darts between his legs, sending him sprawling face-first into the dirt. "Sara, control your monster!"

Sara doesn’t look up from her book. "She’s not my monster. She’s everyone’s monster."

"Then everyone should help!" The younger kid scrambles up, brushing dirt from his shirt.

Ron flips a page, leaning against the far wall. He’s reading an old hardback with faded letters, so I have no idea what the story is. "You’re the one who gave her sugar."

"I did not!"

"You absolutely did." Sara’s voice drips with disdain as she finally looks up. "I watched you slip her those candy wrappers."

"That was yesterday!"

"Sugar has a half-life of forever in Bun," Ron mutters.

The bickering continues. Words bounce off the cave walls, amplifying the chaos until it’s a physical presence in the room. I stand in the middle of it all, watching Bun zoom by with too many eyes blinking from her forehead.

It should feel normal. Almost comforting in its familiarity—the way chaos becomes routine when you live with children who can sprout wings and tails and limbs at will.

But something’s off.

I can’t place it. The noise is the same. The children are the same. Even Caine, who’s inserted himself into our weird family unit with surprising ease, is behaving normally—catching Jer before he trips again, stopping Bun from licking a suspicious patch on the floor.

"No, don’t put that in your mouth," he says, scooping her up effortlessly, apparently unphased when she resembles a monstrous spider instead of a human child.

Yet my skin crawls with wrongness. The sensation creeps through my skin, settling deep into my bones, and it’s hard to breathe. I cross my arms, pressing my palms against my ribs, trying to soothe the gnawing tension building there.

Nothing helps.

"Sara, I swear, if you don’t get up and help—" Jer’s voice fades to background noise.

I’m here, but not here. My body stands in the center of the cave like abandoned furniture while my mind races, searching for the source of the dread. It’s not a vision. Not a voice. Not a clear warning or sign. Just a feeling—insistent and urgent, like radio static growing steadily louder.

I try to take a deeper breath, but my lungs refuse to expand fully.

Danger’s coming.

I press my fingertips harder against my sides, trying to interpret the warning misfiring through my system. It’s like trying to read Morse code without knowing the pattern—just persistent dots and dashes of anxiety, refusing to translate into anything coherent.

Across the room, Caine’s eyes find mine again. He’s been glancing over every few minutes while managing the chaotic energy of the kids. This time, his gaze lingers. The slight furrow between his brows deepens as he studies my face.

He hands Bun—currently sporting triangular cat ears and whiskers alongside her extra eyes—to Ron, who accepts the wriggling bundle with practiced ease. Caine crosses the room in a few long strides, his presence cutting through the noise around us.

"Grace?"

His voice is low, meant for me alone. My name in his mouth still does things to my insides, even with this dread crawling through my veins. I reach for his shirt sleeve, my fingers pinching the fabric with the barest pressure—careful to avoid skin contact. It’s a whisper of a touch, barely there.

His reaction hits immediately. His breath catches. His pupils dilate, stormy gray darkening further as his gaze drops to where my fingers connect with his shirt. The air between us charges, familiar heat flaring in response.

For a moment, I almost forget the warning thrumming through my body. The pull between us is still so strong, a physical tug that makes every nerve ending light up with awareness. But the unease coiling in my stomach can’t be ignored.

I tug him toward the shadowed sleeping alcove, away from the kids. His footsteps follow without hesitation.

In relative privacy, he leans in, close enough I smell his scent—warm, dark, distinctly Caine. His breath fans against my hair as he bends toward me, and he steps a little too close.

I step back. There’s a different unease now, one where I’m pretty sure he’s misunderstood why I dragged him with me. If I move even a millimeter closer, I’m pretty sure he’s going to throw the no touching room out the window—not that the cave has one—and kiss me senseless, audience or no.

"Something’s coming," I whisper, my voice tight with tension as I try to defuse the strange atmosphere he’s brought with him. "Something bad. I can feel it, I think. It’s weird. Maybe I’m going crazy."

The change is immediate. The heat in his eyes doesn’t exactly vanish, but it transforms, hardening into something else entirely. His shoulders square. His jaw sets. In an instant, he shifts from the man who looks at me with desire to a warrior king. A protector.

He doesn’t question me. Doesn’t dismiss my feelings as paranoia or ask for evidence I don’t have. He simply nods, accepting my warning as truth.

My heart melts.

"Where?" he asks, voice sharpened to a tactical edge.

I shake my head, frustrated by my own vagueness. "I don’t know. I just feel it. Here." I press a hand against my sternum, where the heaviness sits. "Like something’s about to go wrong."

His eyes scan the cave, no longer focused on me. He’s in a different world in his head, doing alpha things. "Is it coming for the kids?"

"I don’t know. Maybe it’s about Lyre and the others. I’m not sure. I just can’t shake this... feeling."

I could just be having a mental breakdown. After all, it sounds crazy trying to explain it to him, and I’ve never had an ability to foresee chaos or disaster. But something inside me knows. It’s a bone-deep surety, something I can’t doubt, no matter how much I try to logic it away in my head.

And Caine believes it.

He hasn’t looked at me with a single shred of doubt.

He nods once, decisive. "We need a plan. First priority is securing the cave. Second is establishing communication."

No questions about my certainty. No dismissal of my intuition. Just immediate, practical response.

I exhale slowly, some of the tightness in my chest easing. The dread doesn’t diminish—if anything, it intensifies—but sharing it makes it more bearable somehow.

"Maybe... we should leave the cave?"

The anxiety lessens a little, and I nod. "Yeah. We should leave the cave. I think it might happen... here."

It’s a little easier to breathe.

Could be my imagination. Could just be residual from sharing my worries. But again the strange something inside me feels like it approves of what I’m saying.

His hand hovers near my elbow, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the heat of him. "Stay with the kids," he says. "I’m going to check outside."

"What if I’m wrong?" I ask, suddenly doubting the strength of my conviction.

He meets my eyes, serious and steady. "Then we’re prepared for nothing. But we need a plan if we’re leaving with all these children."

And if I’m right—

Well.