Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 273

Chapter 273: Grace: Saving Humanity

My mouth falls open.

There’s no smile on his face, no hint of humor in his even tone, just dead (pardon the pun) seriousness and a mild killing intent.

"You can’t kill someone for their house."

"Why not?"

"Because it’s their house, Caine. They live there." I pause. "At least sometimes." Rich people probably have a lot of houses.

Which is not the point. The point is morality and we can’t just kill people to have a house on the ocean in today’s society, wolf shifter or not.

He dips his head and presses a kiss to my forehead. Then the bridge of my nose. Then my left cheekbone. "If I can’t buy you what you want," another kiss, this one on the curve of my jaw, "I’ll take it for you."

My pulse hammers against the spot on my neck that still throbs from his bite. His lips trail down the other side now, mirroring his earlier path, and the contrast between the tenderness of his mouth and the absolute insanity of his words makes my head swim.

"Obey the law," I manage. It comes out weak and pathetic in the face of defending basic humanity.

"No law restricts the Lycan King."

I roll my eyes. "There are laws even for the Lycan King." I think.

His teeth scrape my collarbone and he pulls back to look at me with an expression of total, unshakable calm.

"Then I’ll kill everyone who thinks they can control us."

I stare at him in bemused silence, but no, still no hint of humor in his calm face. Just to double-check, I ask, "Are you serious?"

His gaze doesn’t waver. "Yes."

I smack both palms against his cheeks.

His head jerks between my hands, caught, and I hold on—pressing his face between my palms so he can’t dodge or dip down or distract me with his mouth again. Stubble prickles against my skin. His jaw flexes under my grip. Glittering gray eyes watch me from between my fingers, patient as a predator with nowhere else he’d rather be.

"You cannot just go around killing people," I berate him, wondering how we’ve gone—again—from a sexy mood to something very different.

I blame the food delivery. This all somehow boils down to the McDonald’s sitting on the table.

His hand comes up and wraps around my right wrist, his fingers circling it completely until his thumb presses into the soft skin over my pulse. Then he draws my hand from his cheek and turns it over to expose my palm before pressing a soft kiss into the center.

My heart jumps.

His tongue flicks out into a single, slow stroke across my palm that lights up nerve endings I didn’t know existed there.

My breath catches.

"Then you’ll have to make reasonable demands of me," he says, and it takes a minute for me to remember we were mid-conversation, saving humanity one line at a time.

Forget it. Humanity’s on its own. Sorry; we’ll deal with his morality another time, okay? "Fine. I take it back. I don’t want a mansion on the beach."

The low rumble of his laugh vibrates against my palm. Then his teeth close around the tip of my index finger.

He draws it into his mouth while maintaining eye contact, and trust me, even if it sounds awkward, it does not feel awkward. His soft nibbles register somewhere south of my navel and my breathing goes shallow, especially when his tongue curves around the pad of my finger. The sensation is so absurdly disproportionate to what’s happening and yet I’m incapable of oxygen.

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