Grace of a Wolf-Chapter 111: Jack-Eye: You’re Not Special

JACK-EYE

Three hours of silence is my limit. I fiddle with the volume dial just to give my hands something to do. Something like not sliding through the messy bun Lyre’s created out of her rainbow-colored hair.

"So... sleep. That’s still a thing, right?"

She doesn’t look at me. "I’m fine."

Okay.

The temperature in the car drops ten degrees with those two words. Not literally—though with Lyre, you never know. I clear my throat and lean back in my seat.

She’s been like this ever since Grace called. That girl has a talent for finding trouble, and it rivals Caine’s talent for making enemies. The fact they’re bound together is cosmic irony.

She seems sweet, though. Sweet enough to keep a feral witch like Lyre loyal to the girl.

Am I jealous? Maybe a little.

"Where are we headed, anyway?" I keep my voice casual, fishing for any reaction beyond her stone-faced focus on the road.

But it’s not Lyre who answers, damn it.

"We’re circling back toward where we started, actually." Thom’s voice pipes up from the back seat, so eager it makes my molars ache. "The ley lines around the Fiddleback territory are fascinating—they twist in ways I’ve never seen before. The mana flow creates these... these beautiful rivers of light that intersect and diverge. I can actually see them now, which explains how my tracking works. It’s like the signature leaves ripples in the—"

I grit my teeth so hard I’m surprised they don’t crack. I don’t need a lecture from the wizard-who-couldn’t. Especially not when he’s answering for her like they’re some kind of team now.

The way he looks at her—like she hung the fucking moon and stars—makes my skin crawl. Like she’s his personal goddess because she did some magical party trick with her lips.

He goes on for a couple more minutes, nerding out to this bizarre magic science I don’t understand, before finally ending with, "Anyway... who are we tracking, exactly?"

Lyre answers without emotion. "Someone’s hair was on the body. We’re tracking them."

"There wasn’t enough energy in the strand for me to track, though." He sounds like a confused fucking puppy. Not a brain cell in his nerdy little head.

Her eyes flick up to the mirror, then back to the road. "That’s why I gave you a boost."

The wizard makes a soft "ahh" sound, disappointment dripping from that single syllable, and something in me snaps.

"What, think she kissed you because you’re special?" I ask, sarcasm coating every syllable, with an undertone of bitter jealousy.

Thom clears his throat and leans back in his seat.

I don’t even fully understand what she did—some weird magical energy transfer that required mouth-to-mouth contact, I guess—but the thought of the sniveling little wizard believing she wanted him makes my blood simmer.

Lyre glances in the rearview again, catching Thom’s slumped posture. Under her breath, just barely loud enough for me to catch: "Humans are so fragile."

A tiny flare of triumph blooms in my chest. No interest, then. No threat.

"I could help you with that block, if you want." She says it casually, once again focused on the road.

My heart trips.

"What magical block?" Thom perks up immediately, a wilted plant of a man getting a taste of divine, rainbow-colored water.

She shrugs one shoulder. "It’s hard to explain. You’ll get it once you start feeling arcana properly."

And just like that, my fleeting victory crumbles. I turn toward the window, watching the blur of dark trees.

Of course wizard-boy gets special lessons. Of course they can talk about magic and energy and ley lines like it’s pillow talk. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here imagining what it’d feel like if she slipped her hand over and—

Fuck. This isn’t me. I don’t get jealous. I don’t get possessive. I’m the guy who knows how to separate business and pleasure. The guy who’s had more women than most men meet in a lifetime.

But all I can think about is how warm Lyre’s skin was the last time she grabbed my wrist and how good she smells. She smells like chamomile and something faintly citrusy—orange blossoms, maybe. Soft. Not perfumey.

The kind of scent you don’t notice right away, but once it’s in your lungs, it stays there. Warm. Familiar. Like the start of a memory.

Makes me hard as soon as her scent hints, which means I’ve been battling it off and on for hours.

Get your shit together, man. Not the time to want a hand job. You’ve handled greater temptations than this.

My wolf whimpers in my head. He’s still terrified of her. It should turn me off, but there’s nothing like lusting after a woman strong enough to intimidate my wolf.

Most of us don’t have the same kind of relationship with our wolves as Caine does. Some are more chatty than others, and usually the stronger the wolf, the more they talk. freёnovelkiss.com

Mine doesn’t talk much. Usually prefers to stick with growls, howls, and the occasional chuff. He can speak as often as he wants... the key being, if he wants.

He’s made it clear he doesn’t want to talk to me—and he won’t waste the energy unless it’s absolutely necessary.

We get along fine, though.

Do we? he asks sourly. If I have to endure one more image of your dick, I might bite it off myself during the next full moon.

My knees snap together in an automatic reaction, and Lyre glances over with a brow raised.

I pretend like I just needed to shift position, which sucks because I was finally comfortable.

Shut up, I snarl at my wolf, who’s usually impeccable at keeping quiet. Guess he’s tired of my horny imagination. Can’t blame him; it’s a little frustrating, even for me.

Every time we pass a restaurant? Thinking about throwing her down on a table. Rest stops? Taking her in a stall. Woods? Fucking her against a tree. When there’s nothing particular to imagine, I think about her sliding her hand over and pumping me until I spray all over her dash. How cute it would be when she scolds me for making a mess. How she might lick her fingers clean—

I’m biting it off, my wolf warns.

Damn it.

I watch Lyre’s face. She’s frowning at the road like it insulted her.

If she crashes us all into a tree, at least I’ll die looking at her.