Don't let anyone know I'm your mate, I'd told Caine with all the confidence of a girl whose borne countless hours of bullying in this pack.
Past Grace is Stupid. Capital S and all.
Granted, I had no idea Ellie would jump from basic bullying to attempted murder, but whatever—I should have known it was a possibility when her fated mate was sneaking around behind her back to try and keep as his little side piece lover.
Wolves don't play when it cos to their mates, and a girl like Ellie has too much pride to ever lose to a human like .
At least if Caine had stayed with , she wouldn't have had the balls to grab as soon as I ran off on my own.
Then again, she's clearly lacking any intelligence or rationality whatsoever, so who knows. Maybe it would have made it all worse.
I an, she even thinks I've been talking to her father!
Hopefully he's the cause behind all her bruises. She clearly needs a stronger hand in parenting.
I glance at my phone again and vault over a fence, shocking myself with the fluid motion. Since when can I do parkour? My body launches over the wooden slats like I've been clearing obstacles my whole life instead of ducking pack bullies.
No ti to question it now. The Guardian dot on my screen pulses brighter as I close in. I'm moving fast—unnaturally fast. Not werewolf fast, but definitely not normal-human-girl-who-gets-winded-walking-up-stairs fast either.
The shifters who were tailing have disappeared from view, which isn't as comforting as it sounds. They can track my scent as easily as reading a neon sign. But right now, beating this tir matters more than whatever ga of supernatural cat-and-mouse Ellie's forced to play.
I skid to a stop when my phone indicates I've reached the destination, with two minutes and twelve seconds to spare. My lungs burn like I've inhaled fire. I double over, one hand clutching my side where a stitch pulses with each labored breath.
Nothing.
Nobody.
Just an empty parking lot surrounding an abandoned building—the old alpha lodge. Half of it stands charred and crumbling, a skeleton of its forr grandeur after the fire that ripped through it a couple decades ago. I don't know the full story, just fragnts.
"Hello?" I gasp out, checking the map once again.
Yep. This is the right place.
I gulp down air, trying to stand straight despite the knife-like pain in my side. I smack at the stitch, as if I can physically beat the cramp into submission. Each breath hurts, but I force myself upright, spinning in a slow circle to scan my surroundings.
Still empty.
My phone dings. The countdown has vanished, replaced by a notification.
A new private ssage.
[CAERIEL: Good job. You can go back now.]
That's it? I ran halfway across town, probably making myself a target for every shifter with a grudge, for this dismissive little ssage?
And who the fuck is this Caeriel person?
Since the chat originated from the Divinity app and is (I think) from an approved personage of… whatever this stupid app does, I type back:
[GRACE HARPER: Are you the person I was supposed to et?]
The response is imdiate.
[CAERIEL: Consider us t.]
I stare at my screen, rage building in my chest. This cryptic bullshit is all I get for my troubles?
[GRACE HARPER: That's it? You made run all the way here just to send a text ssage?]
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Just like text ssages. It makes wonder what ca first—the app or the egg, so to speak.
Then:
[CAERIEL: The journey matters. Your capacity needed testing.]
I kick at a loose piece of gravel, watching it skitter across the cracked pavent. It's entirely possible I'm shooting myself in the foot with my angry sass, but forgive for being a little pissed off.
[GRACE HARPER: My "capacity"? For what? Running? I could've told you I'm not exactly track team material.]
[CAERIEL: And yet you arrived with ti to spare, outpacing shifters. Interesting for soone who claims human limitations, isn't it?]
My breath catches.
Even the slowest pack mber can outpace a human, probably with both ankles broken. And the fence jump? Not exactly in my usual repertoire of skills.
[GRACE HARPER: Who are you?]
[CAERIEL: Ask Lyre.]
Lyre. Of course.
[GRACE HARPER: Are you one of her weird creepy friends?]
I wonder if he's part of the fan club.
The typing indicator pulses for nearly thirty seconds before his reply appears.
[CAERIEL: Better.]
I'm about to respond when movent at the edge of the parking lot catches my eye. A figure appears—tall, impossibly slender, dressed all in black. Carrying a giant, ornate scythe... and a phone.
It's obviously the Grim Reaper. With a phone.
Seriously, a phone.
My heart drops.
The figure stops about twenty feet away. It's a man—or at least man-shaped. His pale skin gleams in the shadow of his oversized hood, and long black hair falls past his shoulders, framing a face of such severe beauty it hurts to look at him directly.
At first, I thought he was wearing so sort of giant, creepy Grim Reaper cloak, but now I can see it's so fancy, sowhat archaic-styled long jacket with a deep hood.
The scythe is still scary, up close or afar.
"Caeriel…?"
He nods.
Taking an awkward step back, I glance at his scythe again. "Are you here to take to the underworld? Did all that running kill ? Am I dead now?"
Note: Thinking your dead has a severe side effect of running mouth syndro.
His beautiful face frowns at . "No."
Okay. Not dead. Cool. I'll take it.
My fingers tremble, and my phone falls to the ground with a clatter. The screen spiders on impact, and I curse softly.
I have no idea how much the phone costs, but I do know I definitely have no idea how to replace it.
Caeriel leans down to pick it up, waving a hand over it before giving it back to with a fully intact screen.
I take it with both hands, feeling suddenly reverent to this strange man with his gothic attire and terrible treatnt. "Thanks."
He leans forward. "Since you're thankful, you can do a favor."
Alarm bells ring, and I step back. He has far too much interest written all over his face. "I'm sorry. I have a boyfriend." Should I have said mate instead? But that would be a little weird.
His face rearranges itself into another gorgeous frown.
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