Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 212: Grace: The Great Laundry Dilemma

Somehow, "You'll start followingtomorrow" turned into Ron asking to follow Caine today, leavingalone

with three younger children and a bleeding new-mama heart, with a side hustle of arousal thanks to Caine’s

wicked little whispers in my ear, which we are not going into, thank you very much.

I'd dodged the question with all the alacrity of a gazelle under hunt (if said gazelle had four broken legs) and |

don’t think my blush faded for at least fifteen minutes, but that is not the issue here, okay? Not. The. Issue.

Seriously, my own (kind of) son-slash-younger-brother just ditchedto follow his dad (???) to bring-your-son-

to-work day.

The whiplash is real and my thoughts are getting seriously parenthetical. | haven't been a mom long and now it

feels like | need to worry about my child's rent and college tuition, before I've even figured out my own...

Note to self: Don’t adopt older children, they grow too fast.

Bun grabs my leg, her tiny fingers latching onto my jeans as she babbles something that sounds vaguely like

"Go-go-da-ma-ba" with a whole slew of other sounds and strange inflections mixed in. | have no fucking clue

what she’s saying, and little rabbit ears have popped out from her dark curls, twitching frantically.

My heart melts into my freaking socks (also in low supply, now that I'm thinking about it) and | scoop her up,

savoring the warm weight against my chest. At least someone still needsand doesn’t dash off to do boring

alpha things with boring alpha men. She immediately jams her face into the crook of my neck, her soft baby

breath reeking of applesauce and peanut butter.

Over Bun'’s head, | survey the remaining chaos—Sara and Jer are sprawled on opposite ends of the couch, their

shirts decorated with a modern art masterpiece of juice, applesauce, and what | think might be chocolate.

Please let it be chocolate.

"Do either of you have any other clothes to change into?" | ask, already knowing the answer in my heart.

| know, okay? Grace Harper is not good mom material. Grace Harper did not do laundry. Laundry is like, tier one

mothering instincts. Clothes are important. Grace Harper does not remember to do things like laundry when

she’s on the run from weird supernatural bullshit.

All the fun stuff in this camper, and Lyre skimped on a freaking washing machine...

Would be nice about now.

Sara shakes her head as she picks at a crusty stain on her sleeve.

"Nope," Jer says, not even bothering to look at his own clothing as he grabs a cup of juice from the cupholder at

the end of the couch.

Damn.

| take a deep breath, trying to assure myself everything's fine and the world isn’t on fire. I lived here for six

years. | know this pack’s territory like the back of my hand—well, at least the parts of it with roads.

But that was before Ellie and her urge to burysix feet under.

Taking three kids to the laundromat sounds like a great way to get in massive trouble, but also being naked isn’t

really a great option.

My phone dings, and | shift Bun to my hip to check it.

[ASSIGNED MISSION: Investigate the compromised artifact located at 'Wash-N-Were’, 3047 N. Moonlight Ave.]

| stare at it, unblinking.

Does theread minds?

It has to read minds.

Obviously, Wash-N-Were is the laundromat. Fantastic naming sense aside, it's clean and reasonably priced and

definitely where | was going to go.

Then there's another notification beep.

[CAERIEL: Don’t worry. My eyes are on you.]

Hmm. Yes. Perfect. A creepy guy watchingis exactly what | want in life.

Sure, he’s probably powerful enough to keepsafe, but it doesn’t mean he will

keepsafe. Lyre seemed to think he would step up when it comes down to it, but...

| type back quickly:

[GRACE HARPER: Will you helpif Ellie’s goons cafteragain?]

No reply comes, leavingwith a 50/50 chance of reliable protection.

Lovely.

| stare at my hand, turning it over as if | might find instruction manual etched into my palm. The surge of power

I'd used to escape Ellie would sure be helpful to call on demand.

"What's wrong?" Sara asks, her face appearing out of nowhere.

I look up, forcing a neutral expression. "Nothing. Just thinking about laundry. Any chance you two could watch

Bun while | run a quick load to the laundromat?"

The words leave my mouth, and | immediately regret them. Leaving Bun with these two is like asking

pyromaniacs to housesit a match factory. Stupid idea, impossible execution, a fat neon N-O in skyscraper-sized

letters.

"No problem!" they chin unison, their enthusiasm doing nothing to reassure me.

Sadie, who's been curled beneath the table, raises her head and lets out a sharp bark, and | swear | can

understand exactly what she’s saying: Terrible idea, absolutely not.

Even the cat—who wants to live under the sink forever as far as | can tell—emerges from its dark little kingdom,

leaps gracefully onto the counter, and fixeswith a judgmental stare and a yodeling meow.

"Get down," | hiss at the cat, nudging it off the counter. "And you," | point at Sadie, "calm down. I'm just thinking

out loud."

My head throbs. | should have held Ron back. Should have asked him to stay, explained | needed him to stick

around while | got the laundry done. But I'd kind of forgotten about it all, focusing instead on how awkward it felt

to go commando without thinking about the reason I'm commando.

More brilliant life choices, courtesy of me.

Maybe the clothes can last another day? | glance at Jer and Sara, trying to calculate just how much worse those

stains could possibly—

"Oops."

The word hangs in the air for a split second, and | fight the urge to close my eyes and pretend nothing's

happened.

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