Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 269

Chapter 269: Grace: Romance (IV)

After what feels like hours but is really probably half of one in a dragged and extended scene, I manage to not only scrub myself clean but destroy every last tangle in my hair (along with discarding three more leaves). I’ve even calmed down enough to stand in the fancy rainfall shower for a few minutes for pure enjoyment.

Just kidding.

I spend probably five minutes muttering to myself as I try to figure out how I’m supposed to greet Caine when I come out dressed in nothing but my birthday suit beneath a fluffy white robe.

I giggle half-hysterically as I consider just walking out there and flinging my robe open to let him see the goods and hope it progresses naturally from there, but the sound stops abruptly as I realize he literally just saw it all. A little dirty, but not enough to hide any of it.

Plus, he’s seen it all before.

With my luck he’d just stare at me calmly and hand me a plate of food instead of pounce on me like he’s ravenous for a Grace buffet.

Seriously, why is this so hard.

I groan.

The sound bounces off the tile and comes back to me, pathetic and hollow. I thunk my forehead against the cool wall. Then again. A third time for good measure.

Stop. Thinking.

The faucet squeaks as I wrench it off. Steam billows around me like a curtain call for the world’s most anticlimactic one-woman show.

I suck in a breath of hot, humid air and hold it until my lungs burn. The plan is simple.

There’s no plan. No rehearsed entrance, no strategic robe-drop, no mental gymnastics about where to put my hands or how to angle my hips. I’ll walk out there and let whatever happens happen. If I spend one more second strategizing my own seduction, I’ll lock myself in this bathroom and live here forever. The hotel can charge Caine for the permanent resident.

Decision made.

I nod at my blurred reflection, dry myself off with rough, efficient strokes, and yank the robe off its hook. The terrycloth swallows me whole—thick, white, luxurious, like I showered in a spa and not in my hotel room. I cinch the belt so tight it almost cuts off circulation. Loosen it. Tighten it again. Settle on somewhere in between.

It does my figure no favors, but who cares? I’m naked underneath. That’s the sexiest part, right? ... Right?

My fingers find the door handle and I square my shoulders, bracing myself for the next few minutes.

The door swings open to—

Nothing.

The bedroom is empty.

My stomach sinks a full three inches.

I pad into the living area, feeling a little like I’m sneaking around, and stop.

Caine stands at the dining table with his back half-turned, positioning a crystal vase of deep red roses at its center. His hands adjust the arrangement a few times; they’re flopping around and in dire need of a trim to fit, but he doesn’t seem to realize he can cut the stems.

A neat pile of swept-up rose petals sits by the front door. Next to it, a broom.

He was cleaning.

While I stood in the shower rehearsing my grand entrance, the Lycan King was on petal duty.

How cute.

His head turns and his gray eyes find me, drift down the length of the robe, pause somewhere around my bare calves, and come back up. The whole thing takes less than two seconds, leaving me feeling vaguely disappointed.

"Food’s not here yet. Seafood all right?"

I nod.

Brilliant seduction, Grace. You’ve nailed it.

"Good." He crosses the room, scoops a bag off the couch, and passes close, leaving me leaning a little into his scent. Fuck, he smells good.

I wonder what I smell like to him.

"I’ll shower while we wait," he says, oblivious to the way my body’s swayed toward him, and disappears into the bedroom.

A second later, I hear the bathroom door click shut.

I stand in the middle of the suite. Alone. In my robe. Surrounded by roses and the ghost of his scent.

Seriously, what was I even panicking over? The man’s cooled down over the course of my shower while I’d revved myself up. We are on completely different wavelengths now.

I drift to the table and flick one of the roses with my finger. The petal bends and springs back, mocking me with its perfection.

"What an oblivious man," I mutter, half-accusing and all-grumpy. He was pristine. Not a speck of dirt on him. His hair wasn’t even messy. What possible reason does the man have to shower right now when he could be out here, with me, doing literally anything other than showering?

I flick the rose again, harder, but it remains perfect and pretty.

My gaze wanders to the couch, where my pile of clothes sits in a neat, folded stack. Someone—Caine, obviously—moved them from the table in preparation for our meal. The lingerie peeks out from beneath the shirt.

I stare at it.

Am I supposed to get dressed now? Is that the protocol? Robe for shower, clothes for dinner, then... what? Back out of the clothes...? Why dirty them, then?

But if I don’t get dressed, does it make me look too eager...?

"That was fast," I finally say, after groping—in my brain—for something to say.

Why would he—

Oh.

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