Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 272

Chapter 272: Grace: Checked Out

Fighting laughter is even harder, but I manage. "Looks like the wrong order," I comment, since he doesn’t seem capable of saying anything.

Caine sets the bag and drink on the dining table. Still not a single word.

He doesn’t look at the food again; no, his eyes are already on me, dark and intent, and he stalks across the room with tight focus.

My stomach flips.

"Wait." I hold up a hand and take a step back, my attention still focused on his dragons—no, on the McDonald’s. "Call the delivery guy."

He doesn’t slow down and I take several more steps back until I hit a wall.

"Caine, call him back. Tell him he brought the wrong food and he needs to come back with—"

"I’ll order it again," he says simply, settling his hands on my waist.

My body leans forward, already accepting the vibes he’s giving off. But my frugal brain keeps screaming about McDonald’s and how there’s a vast difference between a Big Mac and an expensive seafood dinner.

"You already paid for—how much was it? Call him, it’ll take two seconds, or at least get a refund—"

"Later," he says calmly, yanking my hips forward until my robe is squished up against his dragon pants. And his dragon. You know—his dragon.

Yeah.

That one.

My eyes bounce around, unable to accept the money he’s literally throwing away. "Just check your phone. One call. Thirty seconds. Then—"

"Grace."

"You can’t just throw money away because you’re—" I wave at his bare chest, at the dragons, at the general situation, "—impatient!"

One arm hooks behind my knees, the other around my back, and I go weightless as he lifts me to his naked chest.

I grab at his shoulder as he turns and walks us into the bedroom, looking back at the forlorn, mistakenly ordered McDonald’s on the table. "It’s a waste of money!" I try again, unable to let it go.

"It’s my money to waste."

I smack his shoulder. Hard enough that my palm stings, not hard enough to register on whatever planet his pain threshold exists on, wolf shifters be damned.

"That’s not the point—"

The blasted man tosses me.

My back hits the mattress but before I can even orient myself, his hands find the collar of the robe and yank.

The man seems to have a gift for tearing seams because it tears apart like it was made for it, even though all he had to do was untie the front in half a second.

"Hey—!"

But the we’re-gonna-have-to-pay-for-that outrage dies in my throat as his warmth settles over me, both palms flat on the mattress on either side of my head. I’ve been caged in a frame of tattooed skin and raw sexuality and oh my God, why does he smell so good?

I sniff as discreetly as I can, hoping my nostrils don’t flare like an overworked horse.

He didn’t take any cologne into the bathroom, so this is his natural scent, overwhelming even the hotel shampoo and body wash.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify