Bloodbound to the Lycan King

Chapter 265 265: Grace: On the Way

My cuticles don't stand a chance.

I pick at the left thumb first, then the right, then circle back to the left because there's a hangnail that absolutely needs my full attention right now. Not the man beside me. Not the silence expanding between us like a held breath.

Caine drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose on his thigh, and he looks... relaxed. Content, even. Just another day on the road, certainly not a situation where he declared he'd mark me tonight, agreed to discuss it on the way like a seductive promise, and then proceeded to discuss exactly nothing.

Zip.

Zilch.

Not a single word.

No; that's a lie. He did ask considerately if I was cold when I shivered a bit ago.

Am not, in fact, cold. Just still turned on and a little wiggly, thank you.

But the silence has gone a long way in cooling me down… kind of.

I glance at him.

He watches the road.

I glance again.

Same road… and same silence.

The man who wanted to have the conversation appears to have left the vehicle. In his place sits someone who looks borderline pleased with the quiet, as if everything's going exactly how he planned.

I shift in my seat, crossing one leg over the other. Then uncrossing it when I see flakes of dirt and maybe blood hit the floor.

"Are you uncomfortable?"

His level voice breaks the silence, and it takes everything in me not to jump ten feet off my ass.

Caine might not seem like he's paying attention, but it's clear he's noticing everything I do.

"No," I lie out of habit. Then, after a long pause, I correct myself with, "Yes."

His brow wings up just a little, but he doesn't look my way, still watching the road like a blind curve's coming up any second.

It isn't. It's very, very straight and very, very boring.

But considering he started the conversation, I explain, "I need a shower. And new clothes." And probably a tetanus shot, but a shower's a good start.

Caine's gaze finally flicks to me, drops to my ruined shirt—or maybe just my boobs—then returns to the road. One corner of his mouth twitches before his lips thin.

My attention catches on his thigh. There are rusty smears, where my blood transferred without either of us noticing.

"You've got blood on your pants." Not the sexy, deflowered virginal kind, either, though that definitely was on the menu before we both collectively dialed into reality.

He doesn't look down, just taps the wheel a few times before answering calmly, "I'm aware."

"Oh." Our conversation is going nowhere, kind of like when we first met. "Doesn't it bother you?"

That gets a reaction. A muscle flicks in his cheek and the look he gives me is brief but scorching. "It won't be a problem soon."

He has a point; soon they'll be off and… oh dear. My imagination's running amok.

My cheeks go wildly red as my previous simmer returns to a not-so-gentle boil. Damn.

But I pretend not to notice the awkwardness as I press on, hoping he doesn't notice how I'm ogling his thighs now instead of just being worried about the, uh, mess: "You could use a change of clothes, too."

"I have a change of—"

He stops mid-sentence, snapping his mouth closed. Then he grimaces, an expression far too vivid for his usually brooding face. Then, most bizarre of all, his lips purse a little, and I swear to all that's unholy in my lower half, the man looks reluctant.

Reluctant is not a word I associate with Caine.

If he doesn't want to do something, who can force him?

It's enough to make a girl's curiosity go wild.

But after all that, he clears his throat and says, "I have clothes."

Leaving my curiosity unsated, damn it.

"Well, I don't have anything." I gesture at myself—no matter how you slice it, I'm a walking disaster, unfit for public viewing. "I'll need to stop somewhere." But then I wonder who will let me through their doors. Any reputable establishment would probably call the police as soon as they saw me, thinking I've been kidnapped.

Which, technically, I was once, but—wow, that seems like a long time ago.

Caine remains silent, as he usually does. Then he nods a little. "You're right."

I blink a little, nonplussed. How am I supposed to continue this conversation?

"Should we stop by—"

But before my sentence can finish he's pulled his phone out and pressed number one on speed dial.

I swallow the rest of my words.

It rings once before the line connects, and a voice punches through the speaker with enough volume that I hear it clear across the cab.

"What now?"

Jack-Eye, but a weird bugged version of him. He's not happy or sarcastic; if anything, he sounds kind of like a sulking teenager.

Caine doesn't acknowledge the tone. "I need you to order clothes for Grace. Deliver them to the Ridgemont Hotel."

No idea what hotel that is, but it sounds kind of fancy for the region.

There's a long pause on Jack-Eye's end as we continue to traverse the long, straight highway. After far too long, the Lycan on the other end lets out a theatrical exhale.

"Oh, sure. Hang up on me when I ask anything important, but call me when you need a personal shopper."

Caine frowns. It's the teeny-tiniest downturn of the corner of his lips, but it's definitely a frown.

Then Jack-Eye continues sarcastically, "Should I order the flowers too? Maybe some chocolate? A—"

Caine hangs up.

The phone drops back onto his thigh, and I stare at it, then at him.

"That was rude."

"He'll survive."

"He sounded..."

"He always sounds like that."

I beg to differ, but it isn't like I've known them that long. Instead, I ask curiously, "What was the important thing he was asking about earlier?" I'm dying to know what could cause happy-go-lucky Jack-Eye to sound like a taciturn teen.

Caine pauses, his forehead creasing as he clearly takes the time to think. Then he admits, "No idea. Wasn't paying attention at the time."

My eye twitches a little; is this how you're supposed to treat your subordinate…? I reach for my own phone, intending to text Lyre—she can pass along my thanks for the favor, even if it means I'm going behind his boss's back.

Being on the good side of the pack is crucial to a happy life in the future, after all.

Crazy; I'm sitting here plotting my life with the Lycan Pack without even hesitation…

For whatever reason, the moment my screen lights up, I'm smack dab in the middle of a familiar message string in the Divinity App.

[CHAOS: Don't worry; I'm here to help.]

Judging by the timestamp, it was… probably the strange ding that caused the Great Furnadoing.

There's a more recent message, though, somehow missed in the… uh, chaos.

[CHAOS: By the way, can you tell Lyrielle I was helpful?]

Then, as I'm reading, another pops up with a soft ding.

[CHAOS: Don't worry; I won't interrupt your date.]

Well, I wasn't worried before…

"What are you doing?"

I flinch so hard the phone nearly launches from my grip. It fumbles between my fingers and I shove it under my thigh with the speed of someone hiding contraband.

"Nothing." Smooth. Seamless. The picture of innocence. Yep. Nothing strange going on with my phone at all.

… There's no way he's not suspicious now. Damn.

Caine actually turns his entire head, his gaze lingering on my face for a beat too long before returning to the road. His eyes squint a little. "I see."

But, thankfully, he doesn't push.

Instead, he reaches over and flips the center console up, folding it flat to erase the barrier between us. The bench seat opens up—one long stretch of worn leather—and he pats the space beside him.

"Come here."

Two words. Low and quiet and laced with something that turns my blood to warm honey.

I scoot over before my brain has time to weigh in on the decision. My hip finds his, the warmth of his body bleeding into mine, and the low tingling in my abdomen that I'd been so successfully ignoring ratchets up to a hum, reminding me of what exactly we're about to do.

His arm settles across my shoulders, casual as anything, like we've done this a thousand times. His fingers find the curve of my shoulder and trace idle patterns against my skin, and I forget to breathe.

Then remember, and overcompensate with a breath so loud it's practically a gasp.

His fingers don't pause. If anything, they slow down, and a quick glance at his face shows his lips have quirked up.

Yep. He knows what's happening. Damn wolf noses, can't give a girl a single moment of privacy. It's like a cheat code.

"It won't hurt," he says, sounding so calm even as his voice rumbles into my side, making my ribs vibrate. I feel the words more than I hear them.

And for one stupid, knee-jerk second, I'm not in this moment. I'm in a memory—this same truck, this same seat, me hovering over him and the sharp, splitting too much…

I stiffen even as my thighs clench. Wiggle. Shift my weight from one hip to the other.

Swallow.

"You don't have to lie to me," I mumble, finally managing to speak after a mental throat-punch to my sudden peak of arousal. "I know it's supposed to hurt the first time."