h4Chapter 197: Grace: Dark Fashion/h4

    iDon’t let anyone know I’m your mate,/i 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 me as his little side piece lover.

    Wolves don’t y when ites to their mates, and a girl like Ellie has too much pride to ever lose to a human like me.

    At least if Caine had stayed with me, she wouldn’t have had the balls to grab me as soon as I ran off on my own.

    Then again, she’s clearlycking any intelligence or rationality whatsoever, so who knows. Maybe it would have made it all worse.

    I mean, 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 nce at my phone again and vault over a fence, shocking myself with the fluid motion. Since when can I do parkour? My bodyunches over the wooden ts like I’ve been clearing obstacles my whole life instead of ducking pack bullies.

    No time 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 me have disappeared from view, which isn’t asforting as it sounds. They can track my scent as easily as reading a neon sign. But right now, beating this timer matters more than whatever game of supernatural cat-and-mouse Ellie’s forced me to y.

    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 eachbored 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 former grandeur after the fire that ripped through it a couple decades ago. I don’t know the full story, just fragments.

    "Hello?" I gasp out, checking the map once again.

    Yep. This is the right ce.

    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, reced by a notification.

    A new private message.

    strong[CAERIEL: Good job. You can go back now.]/strong

    That’s it? I ran halfway across town, probably making myself a target for every shifter with a grudge, for this dismissive little message?

    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:

    strong[GRACE HARPER: Are you the person I was supposed to meet?]/strong

    The response is immediate.

    strong[CAERIEL: Consider us met.]/strong

    I stare at my screen, rage building in my chest. This cryptic bullshit is all I get for my troubles?

    strong[GRACE HARPER: That’s it? You made me run all the way here just to send me a text message?]/strong

    Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Just like text messages. It makes me wonder what came first—the app or the egg, so to speak.

    Then:

    strong[CAERIEL: The journey matters. Your capacity needed testing.]/strong

    I kick at a loose piece of gravel, watching it skitter across the cracked pavement. It’s entirely possible I’m shooting myself in the foot with my angry sass, but forgive me for being a little pissed off.

    strong[GRACE HARPER: My "capacity"? For what? Running? I could’ve told you I’m not exactly track team material.]/strong

    strong[CAERIEL: And yet you arrived with time to spare, outpacing shifters. Interesting for someone who ims human limitations, isn’t it?]/strong

    My breath catches.

    Even the slowest pack member can outpace a human, probably with both ankles broken. And the fence jump? Not exactly in my usual repertoire of skills.

    strong[GRACE HARPER: Who are you?]/strong

    strong[CAERIEL: Ask Lyre.]/strong

    Lyre. Of course.

    strong[GRACE HARPER: Are you one of her weird creepy friends?]/strong

    I wonder if he’s part of the fan club.

    The typing indicator pulses for nearly thirty seconds before his reply appears.

    strong[CAERIEL: Better.]/strong

    I’m about to respond when movement at the edge of the parking lot catches my eye. A figure appears—tall, impossibly slender, dressed all in ck. Carrying a giant, ornate scythe... and a phone.

    It’s obviously the Grim Reaper. With a phone.

    Seriously, a iphone/i.

    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 ck 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 some sort of giant, creepy Grim Reaper cloak, but now I can see it’s some fancy, somewhat 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 nce at his scythe again. "Are you here to take me to the underworld? Did all that running kill me? Am I dead now?"

    Note: Thinking you’re dead has a severe side effect of running mouth syndrome.

    His beautiful face frowns at me. "No."

    Okay. Not dead. Cool. I’ll take it.

    My fingers tremble, and my phone falls to the ground with a tter. 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 rece it.

    Caeriel leans down to pick it up, waving a hand over it before giving it back to me with a fully intact screen.

    I take it with both hands, feeling suddenly reverent to this strange man with his gothic attire and terrible treatment. "Thanks."

    He leans forward. "Since you’re thankful, you can do me a favor."

    rm 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 imate/i instead? But that would be a little weird.

    His face rearranges itself into another gorgeous frown.