Grace of a Wolf-Chapter 116: Caine: Storm Rolls In

CAINE

The pump clicks off again—the third time in only a few seconds. I throw my head back and rub at my nape, feeling my teeth grind together.

Patience.

I am capable of patience.

Even when dealing with a piece of shit, malfunctioning fuel pump.

Fuel trickles into the second red jug at an agonizing pace, for the fourth try. The first jug filled fine. The second keeps stopping, as if the pump decided to malfunction midway through.

Not my fault.

It just... happened.

Rolling my shoulders back, I squint at the sky. Not at the numbers inching upward. No point in feeding my annoyance, or this restless energy racing under my skin.

A gust of wind whips across the station. The scent it carries is sharp and artificial, and my nose wrinkles as I sniff it in a little deeper. It’s strange; I can’t quite place it, but it just doesn’t smell like a normal weather pattern. And beneath it all, something kind of itchy and strange.

Ten minutes ago, the sky was clear blue. It’s being taken over by heavy, dense storm clouds.

"Martha, you seein’ this?" an old man calls to his wife from the next pump over. He’s filling up a rust-bitten pickup that’s seen at least three decades of hard use. His pump seems to be functioning just fine.

Maybe I should wait in line at one of the other pumps. There are only three others, though. It’s a small station, with prices bloated to match.

"Were we supposed to get a storm in tonight?" he continues, stepping a few paces to the right and squinting through his wrinkles.

The woman pokes her head out of the passenger window, shouting, "They never get it right anymore. Storms never came in like this when I was a girl."

He’s not far enough to warrant the increase in her volume. Either he’s hard-of-hearing, or she is. Or both. They’re certainly in the right age bracket for it. Their voices grate on my nerves.

Contrary to popular belief, a wolf’s sensitive hearing doesn’t make shouting any more painful than it would be for a human... but I’m on edge as it is, and hearing gravelly old voices chat about the weather isn’t helping matters.

The pump clicks off again. I bite back a snarl.

"Goddamn technology," I mutter, squeezing the handle with enough force to warp the metal. Something is wrong with today. With the storm. With me.

My chest feels tight, like the moments before a shift when my bones prepare to crack and reshape themselves. But this isn’t a shift. This is something else—a pressure building inside with nowhere to go.

I take a deep breath. Release it slowly. It doesn’t help.

The second jug finally fills, and I cap it with more force than necessary. Every nerve in my body feels raw, exposed. The slightest sound—a car door slamming, the old man’s crackling radio—is like a grater taken to what’s left of my dwindling supply of patience and manners.

I still need water. Gasoline isn’t the only reason I’m here.

Get this done, and then I can get back to Grace. And the kids.

Inside the store, fluorescent lights buzz. Not a sound to normally capture my attention, it’s somehow too loud to ignore this time.

Two of Lyre’s blue jugs in hand, I head for the bathroom. But the sink is laughably small, barely enough to wash hands, and certainly not capable of filling these containers.

I stare at it, calculating how many times I’d need to fill a bottle and pour it in to make this work. Too many.

There has to be an easier way.

Back at the counter, an attendant with acne-scarred cheeks and the distinct scent of marijuana clinging to his clothes watches me approach.

Human male. Adolescent. Terrified enough to release a familiar, pungent scent.

"I need to fill these with water, but your sink’s too small in the bathroom." I place the empty jugs on the counter. "Where can I fill them?"

His pupils dilate, and he shuffles his feet. "Um. The bathroom sink isn’t for, like, that."

Obviously.

I lean forward and lower my voice, keeping it soft and steady. Don’t want to spook the kid further. He might wet himself. "Then where would you suggest I get water?"

"There’s Trucker’s Roost about a mile down the highway. They got a water station for RVs and stuff." His voice has gone up an octave, and his eyes keep darting everywhere but at me. The pungent scent of his fear should bother me, but instead it soothes the beast inside. Just a little.

A low growl builds in my chest. The kid takes a jerky step back, and my metaphorical hackles lower.

It’s good to be feared.

"Hey man, I don’t want any trouble," he says, hands raised. His coworker, a girl with blue hair, reaches for the phone. "There’s nothing I can do."

"There’s no trouble." Grabbing the jugs, I head out the door.

Trucker’s Roost. I think I saw a sign for it on our way up. There was, if I recall, a chicken on the billboard. Driving a semi.

If Jack-Eye were here, he’d have plenty to say about it.

"Drugs are a real problem these days," I hear him mutter to his coworker as I push through the door.

Outside, the first fat droplets of rain splat against the asphalt. The air smells worse than before, almost electric and burning. The clouds have swallowed the sky now, turning afternoon to premature dusk.

A giant white cat sits atop the ice machine, its blue eyes fixed on the darkening horizon. Its posture speaks of disdain, as if it’s taking the weather as a personal offense. As I pass, it turns that steady gaze on me, assessing. Then, without hurry, it hops down and disappears beneath a parked car.

Not afraid. Not even slightly concerned.

A strange reaction for a cat.

Bigger than a normal housecat, too. Then again, I’m not around them much, so maybe my sense of normal is skewed. Cats hate wolves.

I load the empty water jugs into the truck bed next to the fuel cans and climb into the cab. The moment I shut the door, it hits me—her scent. Grace. Still clinging to the seatbelt, ghosting through the small space.

Sweet blueberry muffins, with the hint of Grace beneath.

I inhale sharply, unprepared for how instantly it calms the storm inside me.

The realization strikes with uncomfortable clarity: I’ve been near her constantly, breathing her in. Her pillow, her clothes, her skin. Her presence has been regulating me without me even realizing it.

Without her here, my senses are raw, exposed. Unfiltered. Is this how I always felt before her? It seems impossible that I could have forgotten this constant, grinding agitation.

I’m going to need to steal her new pillow and keep it in the truck. Maybe switch it out daily.

I reach for the mental link that connects me to my wolf.

How is she?

Fenris’s irritation floods back immediately. The dog keeps coming back. I scared her off again.

I can feel his frustration at being left outside while I took the truck. He’d rather be inside with Grace, standing guard properly instead of lurking beneath the camper.

No one suspicious?

Only humans camping.

I nod, though he can’t see it. His update should ease my tension, but it doesn’t. The wrongness in the air is digging under my skin, setting every instinct on high alert.

The rain’s falling harder now.

I’ll stop at Trucker’s Roost for water, then grab food—burgers, chicken nuggets, fries. Something to appease the small monsters.

As I pull out of the gas station, my gaze returns to the sky. Dark. Roiling. Moving too fast. My gut twists with certainty.

Something’s strange about this storm.