Grace of a Wolf-Chapter 118: Lyre: Maybe I Need to Blow Him

LYRE

I’m slouched in the only chair in this depressing motel room that doesn’t look ready to collapse, scrolling through my Divinity App while Jack-Eye makes significantly more noise in the shower than any one person should. The constant drumming of water hitting tile makes a surprisingly tolerable white noise—not that I’d ever admit it. There’s something satisfying about the rhythmic sound of someone else cleaning off the day’s grime that doesn’t involve me lifting a finger.

I have another direct message. Third one today. People are far too interested in what I’m doing, which means every step I take is going to be analyzed for Balance, damn it.

[CHAOS: Feels like the old times, doesn’t it, Witchlet?]

I snort. He’s been unusually talkative lately, which never bodes well. When Chaos gets chatty, worlds tend to crumble. Or at least have very bad days.

My thumb pauses over a new notification, pulsing red at the top of my screen.

[PLAUSIBILITY WARNING: EXCESSIVE INTERFERENCE IN REGION 23-BETA. FINAL STRIKE.]

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Not this again.

Excessive interference detected in Region 23-BETA. Current manipulations have exceeded Plausibility Threshold by 417%. frёeωebɳovel.com

Timeline strain now approaching rupture tolerance.

You are hereby issued a FINAL WARNING for deviation from ordained narrative progression.

Further unsanctioned alterations may trigger Purge Protocol: Soft Reset.

—Divinity Connect Oversight Engine, Axis Protocols Enforcement Division

"Yes, yes, I know," I mutter, thumbing the warning closed with more force than necessary. "Balance can suck my—"

I stop, staring at the ceiling.

If I’d known we’d be racing against divine bureaucracy, I would’ve handled this differently, made sure I was alone. I could track down our target myself and be done with this in hours, and the hit probably would have been less without witnesses.

But now, if I do as I want, I’ll trigger divine consequences.

And if something bigger comes...

Worse, if they’re serious about triggering the Purge Protocol? The thought alone makes my skin crawl. Memory resets, localized timeline alterations... Grace might wake up with no idea how she got into a camper with a man she considered a murderer just days before.

Humans don’t handle paradox well.

But right now, we’re stuck with Thom—a magical container with all the power of a dying flashlight. He’s barely at five percent of his capacity, and ambient charging of his arcana channels is painfully slow.

The water stops. The sudden silence is jarring.

I stare at my phone, my upper lip curled in frustration. The kiss I planted on Thom earlier gave us three hours of decent tracking before he fizzled again. Energy transfer through physical contact is efficient, but limited by intensity and duration.

"Maybe I need to blow him."

"Wh—what?"

I don’t bother looking up at the sound of Jack-Eye’s voice. Guess he’s done showering. "The wizard. He’s down to fumes, and I need more from him. I’d rather not lose him from a magical backlash, so I have to meter it out. But hand-holding and forehead kisses are only doing so much. I need to transfer more, more efficiently."

The silence stretches long enough that I finally glance up.

Jack-Eye is frozen mid-stride, water dripping from his hair down his chest, a motel towel hanging so low on his hips it’s practically performing a disappearing act. His muscles are tensed like he’s waiting for someone to take a photo.

"The kiss wasn’t enough, huh?" he finally mumbles, his lips twisting like he tasted something sour.

I blink twice. "Why are you naked?"

His mouth opens, closes, then opens again. "I, uh... forgot my clothes on the bed."

My eyes follow his vague gesture to the nearest mattress—the one I’ve already claimed, my bag sitting at its foot.

"That’s my bed."

"No—I meant the other one. The one that’s not yours. Obviously."

I stare at him, completely unmoved. This is the feared Lycan Beta? Seven centuries of watching men fumble through excuses, and they never get any better at it. I return my attention to the screen. "Then dry off. You’re dripping everywhere."

But he doesn’t move. Instead, he does something so predictable I almost laugh: he positions himself closer, one hand gripping the back of my chair as he leans down slightly. Water drips from his hair onto the screen of my phone.

"You know, Lyre... if you have needs, you don’t have to use the wizard."

His body language is dominating alpha, but his tone is hesitant virgin teen.

I tilt my head, examining him like an archaeologist who’s just unearthed a particularly confusing artifact. "And who else here can process arcana, Beta Aaron Xhekaj of the Lycan Pack? Can you?"

His lips part, a breath caught between them, then close again without sound.

"Thought so," I say, turning back to my phone.

He retreats to his bed, rustling through his bag with unnecessary force. The silence has teeth now, sharp little incisors digging into the space between us. I hear the zip of jeans, the soft cotton sound of a shirt being pulled over his head.

Even without looking, I can tell he’s pouting.

"Are you really going to... do that?" His voice is gruff, all hard edges and sulking.

I don’t look up. "Do what?"

"You’re really gonna suck off the wizard?"

The corner of my mouth quirks up despite myself. There’s something almost charming about his juvenile discomfort. Almost.

"Are you worried it’ll affect team morale, Lycan Beta Xhekaj?"

Jack-Eye doesn’t answer, just makes a low sound in his throat that might be a growl. Or indigestion.

I slide my gaze over to him, now fully dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans that have seen better decades. What exactly is his problem? Wolves are famously horny creatures, their blood running as hot as their tempers.

Humans might not realize it—they’re often starry-eyed over the idea of mates, especially fated ones, and tend toward the romantic when it comes to a wolf’s amorous life—but the reality is they’d often fuck a tree if it flirted back. But he’s acting like a teenager whose crush just announced she’s taking someone else to prom.

It would be amusing if it weren’t so inconvenient. He’s far too old to be acting like this—looking at me like I’ve committed some personal betrayal by even suggesting getting Thom into a state where he could actually help us.

"I didn’t expect this attitude from you, of all people," I murmur, turning my attention back to my phone.

"What do you mean by that?"