<h4>Chapter 60: Caine: Fiddleback</h4>


    <strong>CAINE</strong>


    "Put Grace down," Lyre says.


    "No."


    <i>No,</i> Fenris echoes.


    My arms tighten around my limp mate, clutching her to my chest. I refuse to let her go. My lips press against her temple, feeling how cool her skin is. Her breathing’s shallow. Her pulse is weak.


    The thought of letting her go—even for a moment—stabs through me like silver.


    "Put. Her. Down," Lyre orders, as ifmanding the Lycan King is something she can do on a whim. "Your emotions are all over her right now. She doesn’t need your panic seeping into what little energy she has left."


    "No."


    Lyre’s slitted eyes narrow further. "Do you <i>want</i> to kill her?"


    Of course not. She’s the other half of my soul. The fated connection I’d denied is burning bright in my chest, rattled by the thought of losing her.


    Losing a mate is hard, but the thought of losing Grace is... impossible. Dying would be preferable.


    Lyre sighs and stomps out of the room, shaking the camper with each step. A short whileter, she’s back, with a soft white t-shirt. "Here. You can put this on her."


    Grace’s torn shirt is still on the floor, and shame washes through me at the evidence of myck of control. Everything that happened between us had been perfect, transcendent—until it wasn’t.


    Pathetic fool. I should have held back. It was obvious a human couldn’t handle what we have between us.


    <i>She can handle it,</i> Fenris insists. <i>Something is wrong. It isn’t our bond. The Goddess would not allow it.</i>


    With the greatest reluctance, I lower Grace back onto the bed. Lyre doesn’t waste time, pushing in beside me to slip the shirt over Grace’s head. She’s like a ragdoll, without even a hint of resistance.


    Even the scent of blueberries is faint, hard to pinpoint in the mix of other smells.


    "I need to stay with her." My hands hover uselessly above Grace’s still form. "I need to fix this."


    "She’ll be fine. She needs rest more than anything. But you..." Lyre frowns, smacking my hands away. "You have something else to do. Go put your clothes on."


    I want to snap at this strange enigma of a woman, but Grace holds her in great affection. If I hurt her...


    The thought of Grace’s beautiful, grass-green eyes staring at me with usation makes my stomach quiver. It seems I’ve acquired many new fears today.


    Deciding upon magnanimity, I ignore Lyre’s audacity and grab my shirt off the floor, pulling it on. The fabric feels restrictive, unwee against my skin.


    A strange emptiness gnaws at me—something beyond the paralyzing fear of losing Grace. My body feels different. Lighter. As if something coiled within me for years has loosened its grip.


    Even Fenris’s presence feels... clearer, somehow.


    "I’ll exin what’s happening to her when there’s time," Lyre says, not even ncing my way. "But there’s something more important you need to deal with right now."


    "Nothing is more important than her." The words tear from my throat in a feral snarl.


    Lyre doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at me with her uncanny eyes. Then she shakes her head with a sigh.


    "Get outside and deal with who you brought here with your pointless disy of dominance." Her voice drops to a hiss. "Or they’ll be breaking down my door, and I promise you don’t want that."


    "What are you talking about?"


    "Your little tantrum summoned an audience. Your beta’s dealing with them right now, but you need to deal with it."


    Ah.


    I can feel it—the press of unfamiliar wolf energy against the periphery of my awareness. A pack. Territory holders. A presence I would have noticed immediately, if I wasn’t so focused on Grace.


    I growl through clenched teeth.


    "Indeed." Lyre ces her hand on Grace’s forehead. "The ambnce will be here soon, so take care of them before they scare off the EMTs. I’ve got Grace. Go be a king."


    One more look at Grace, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the scatter of faint freckles across her nose, the slow rise and fall of her chest.


    "I’ll be right back," I whisper to her. "I promise."


    Lyre sighs. "Just go."


    Outside, Jack-Eye stands at the foot of the RV steps, his broad back a barrier between what’s mine and a semicircle of wolves—eight of them, various ranks within their pack, all bristling with restrained aggression.


    Their alpha isn’t here, but the one might be their beta.


    "Sir," Jack-Eye says, relief evident in his voice. "The Fiddleback Pack was concerned about our... presence."


    I should be enraged. I should want to tear through these lesser wolves for daring to interrupt when my mate lies unconscious. Even Fenris should be wing at my control, demanding blood for this intrusion.


    But Fenris remains by Grace, silent in my head, leaving it to me.


    And I feel... contained. A strange lucidity courses through my veins where molten fury should be. I can still ess my anger—it’s there, simmering beneath my skin—but it no longer threatens to consume me whole. The sensation is so alien I nearly stumble.


    Jack-Eye studies my face with a frown.


    I give Jack-Eye a curt nod, sidestepping him to face these interlopers directly. My shoulders square, stance widening—the posture of a king who refuses to acknowledge any challenge as legitimate.


    The moment they catch my scent, and the light dominance rolling through the air, their faces grow pale. Jack-Eye’s presence should have been enough, but not all wolves are smart enough to recognize a Lycan. Especially when they’re weak.


    "Where is your alpha?" My question cracks through the air.


    The wolves shift ufortably, exchanging nces. This pack was clearly unprepared for a direct confrontation with the Lycan King. Their difort saturates the air, the forced bravado of those who’ve stumbled into something far beyond their capabilities.


    A female wolf steps forward from their ranks. Mid-thirties,pact build, with sharp features and calcting eyes. Not their alpha, but someone of authority.


    "High Alpha." She keeps her gaze fixed somewhere near my cor, avoiding direct eye contact. Smart. "I am Elizabeth, of the Fiddleback Pack."


    I incline my head. "Why are you here?"


    Elizabeth squares her shoulders, her face grim. "Until we felt a surge of alpha dominance unlike anything we’ve experienced before. In human domain. Our protocols require investigation of unusual shifter activity, especially this close to human poptions."


    My jaw tenses. "You do not recognize the authority of the Lycan Throne?"


    "We do," she assures hastily. "We recognize your authority, High Alpha. We were just... unaware of your presence until now. I apologize for interrupting..." Her eyes flick to the camper. "Your pleasure."


    I can feel Jack-Eye’s amusement behind me, though his face is likely impassive. It’s a sixth sense borne of years of friendship.


    "Was my beta’s presence not enough for you?"


    "My apologies, High Alpha. It is our first experience with Lycans in our territory."


    I grimace. The reasoning is fair; packs like Fiddleback are small, based in rural areas. "Now you know. Now leave. My business here is my own."


    Elizabeth regards me for a moment, then clears her throat. "We mean no offense, High Alpha. The Fiddleback Pack would be honored to offer you hospitality during your stay in our territory." She straightens her posture, schooling her features into a mask of deference. "Ourpound has suitable amodations for you and your entourage."


    A heavy hand smacks down on my shoulder. I don’t have to look; I already know Jack-Eye’s grinning like a fool. He loves anything free; he calls it an upational hazard, after helping with our pack finances for so many years.


    "We’ll take you up on that generous offer," he says, voice warm with charm.


    A growl builds in my chest. I’m not leaving Grace.


    <i>We need somewhere to stay, anyway,</i> Jack-Eye pack-links directly to me. His mental voice is pragmatic. <i>And it means we can keep Andrew away from her.</i>


    My shoulders rx. Yes, distance between the two would be ideal.


    My gaze drifts beyond the confrontation. Andrew stands by my car, arms folded across his chest, eyeing the wolves with suspicion. Thom hovers beside him, nervously fiddling with his copper-wired sses. Behind them sits a pile of our belongings—the copsed tent, sleeping bags, some bags of unknown provisions. Everything already packed up and ready to move.


    How long was I in that camper with Grace? Long enough for them to break down our entire camp.


    "Jack-Eye, take Andrew and Thom to thepound. I will stay here."