h4Chapter 209: Grace: Commando/h4

    One tiny jar of applesauce can make an enormous mess.

    It’s bathed half the living room, the ceiling, a toddler, and a dog. The cat, miraculously, escaped. Jer and Sara were lucky enough to be on the far side of the room.

    One awkward water-conserving showerter is when I realize no one’s kept up with theundry.

    Bun has no clean clothes. Zero. Zilch. She’s now running around naked with a diapered bottom, Ron’s missing, and I’m out of underwear.

    "Where’s Ron?"

    "Outside," Jer says, fiddling with the TV remote. Now that we’re hooked up to electricity, the RV has full wi-fi ess via something-or-another and they’re browsing the TV, arguing on the merits of turtles with ess to samurai swords versus kids bitten by radioactive spiders and acquiring superhuman prowess.

    "Why is he outside?" I ask sharply, even though it feels a little weird to be upset with a kid barely younger than me. How am I supposed to discipline him? Bend him over my knee and spank him? Yeah, right.

    But still, he shouldn’t be outside—

    "He’s talking to Caine," Sara continues, snatching the remote from Jer.

    "Hey! Give it back!"

    "No way."

    I peer through the window to check and sure enough, Ron’s sitting on the camper steps. Caine’s in front of him, arms crossed and a stern expression on his face. Is he berating the teenager?

    Seems like it.

    My first instinct is to bolt outside. Whatever’s happening between them, Ron shouldn’t be facing Caine alone. He might be tall and overly responsible, but he’s still just a kid.

    Then an air conditioning-propulsed breeze hits my legs, and I remember my current predicament. No underwear, which is not exactly prime intervention attire.

    It’s amazing how much confidence a pair of panties can bring your way. Try walking around in public without them.

    If it doesn’t feel any different, kudos to you, but me? I feel naked.

    "Jer, Sara, keep an eye on Bun for a second," I call over my shoulder, not waiting for their response.

    "We’re busy!" Jer protests, still wrestling with Sara over the remote.

    "She’s eating paper," Sara adds casually, not even looking at the toddler.

    I whip around to see Bun happily shredding what appears to be tissues, as evidenced by the bright green Kleenex box beside her.

    Damn.

    "Come on, guys. Watch her. Just—don’t let her choke, okay? Two minutes."

    "Fiiiine," they chorus with identical groans.

    I dash into Lyre’s bedroom, shutting the door behind me, desperate to find myst bit of undergarment armor.

    A intive whine from the bathroom interrupts my search.

    "Shit," I mutter. Sadie. I’dpletely forgotten about her.

    The golden retriever’s been locked in the shower stall since I rinsed the applesauce off her tail. The bathroom now reeks of wet dog and artificial apples, which is not a pleasantbination.

    "Just a little longer, girl," I call through the door. "As soon as I find some clothes."

    Another whine, this one distinctly usatory. I can sense it. I may not be a professional dog trainer, but this whine definitely says something like iCan you hurry up? I’m dying in here./i

    "I know, I know. It’s not my fault Bun decided to use applesauce as a projectile weapon. Give me a bit and I’ll take you outside to dry off."

    I tear through the dresser drawers, looking for underwear. Myst clean pair is apparently victim of applesauce carnage.

    Theundry situation has reached crisis levels, and I had no idea.

    Mom of the Year. Again.

    How many awards can I rue in a day? I’m probably going to end up in the Guinness book of records.

    All I find in the drawers is an assortment ofce, silk, and what appears to be something made entirely of straps, and none of it is mine. I close that drawer quickly.

    Lyre and I might have bonded over supernatural disasters and hair dye, but we are absolutely not panty-sharing close. There are boundaries, and that’s definitely one of them.

    I m the final drawer shut with a groan. The few drawers I’ve stolen as my own are nearing levels of apocalyptic—in other words, empty, empty, iempty/i.

    I have to gomando.

    Pulling on a pair of Lyre’s clean jeans, which are a size too small and give me serious muffin top syndrome, tug at the crotch area a few times, wishing the spandex percentage was at least doubled.

    I’m about to confront an alpha werewolf while wearing zero underwear. There’s probably a metaphor for my life somewhere in that. And it’s unlikely to beplimentary.

    I wonder if he can smell the absence of panties. I sure as hell hope not.

    That would make things awkward.

    Just before I leave, I crack open the bathroom door. Sadie looks up at me with betrayed eyes, her golden fur still damp thanks to the wrestling match her mini-shower had turned into, but she’s still perky and her tail wags with excitement.

    "Come on. Let’s go outside and confront a wolf king."

    Her tail droops.

    * * *

    "Ouch!"

    Sadieunches herself through the doorway like a golden torpedo, mming the door wide enough to crack against the unlucky someone on the others ide.

    Peering around the edge of the door, I find Ron scowling at me, one hand rubbing the back of his head where the door must have connected. His dark eyes narrow with teenage affront, and I smile weakly.

    "Sorry..."

    Sadie,pletely oblivious to the chaos she’s caused, bounds down the camper steps and side-steps Caine warily before bounding into the grass to squat.

    "That dog has issues," Ron mutters, dropping his hand from his head.

    "She’s not my dog," I mumble, though the argument feels increasingly thin. Sadie certainly behaves like she’s mine, even if she technically belonged to a pair of weird old people and I still feel kind of guilty she’s with us.

    Seriously, this is either considered dog-napping or I’ve left two dead old people to be discovered by some hapless camper in the future. Granted, they keep saying Doris and her husband aren’t dead, but still...

    Man, life is weird these days.

    Caine watches our exchange. His face gives nothing away, but I know him well enough now to read the tension in his shoulders. He’s unhappy.

    Okay, it’s not really rocket science—the frown on his face gives it away more than his tense shoulders.

    Clearing my throat, I point at the unconscious Lycan several feet away and bring up the most pressing issue at hand. "Can you take that away?"

    Caine’s eyes don’t even flicker toward his unconscious subordinate. Instead, his gaze locks onto mine withser focus, his expression hardening. "Why was Raphael here?"

    Ah, shit. I’m not ready for this conversation.

    Not because I’m hiding anything—I’m not, I swear—but because it’s...

    Well, let’s be honest.

    It’s embarrassing.

    Like, iseriously/i embarrassing. Who wants to tell their mate their ex came by and tried to make it seem like being their mistress was some great honor? Seriously, it makes me feel dirty and gross and I still haven’t really wrapped my brain around the stupidity of the situation yet.

    I drop my eyes to the grass between us, suddenly fascinated by the remnants of a dandelion, puff-free. Heat crawls up my neck, and I desperately wish I had a pair of panties. Somehow, this situation would feel easier to deal with if I was wearing underwear.

    Shut up. It makes sense in my head.

    "Nothing important," I mumble, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

    I can’t meet his eyes, so I stare at Sadie instead. She stares back as she squeezes her feet as close as they can get and desecrates thewn further.

    Damn. I’m going to have to pick that upter, aren’t I?

    Then I see Ron rolling his eyes.

    Caine’s voice deepens, sending an awkward quiver through me. "Grace. Why aren’t you telling me the truth?"

    Excuse me. That iis/i the truth. It was very much inot/i important.

    But instead of giving him a confident amount of sass, I mumble, "It’s really nothing. He showed up, spouted a bunch of nonsense, and I handled it."

    And I did handle it. Sort of. I pped him and then kneed his balls and he fell down the stairs, and I’m pretty sure that counts as handling it.

    But my mind keeps circling back to a different, safer question, and I try to change the subject without much subtlety, pointing emphatically at the unconscious body we’re all ignoring. "More importantly, why was your guy trying to break down our door? He was threatening us!"

    Caine’s expression shifts from possessively jealous boyfriend interrogation to exasperation. The hard lines soften as he pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, exhaling a long, controlled breath.

    It’s the closest thing to resignation I think I’ve ever seen on his face.

    "I apologize," he says finally, dropping his hand. "He was sent to protect you."

    I scoff.

    Ron says, "I had the same reaction," and lifts his hand in my direction.

    Btedly, I realize he’s asking for a high-five, and I give it to him with a faintly puzzled feeling. Was this a high-five worthy moment?

    Apparently it was, because he shoots me a lopsided grin, apparently harboring no ill will for smashing the back of his head in with the door. Then again, that was technically Sadie’s fault.

    Caine sighs again. "I’ve talked to my men, and it won’t happen again."

    My puzzled smile freezes and I shoot him a wary look. "What do you mean, ’talked’ to them?"

    I’d regretted keeping our rtionship a secret when Ellie was chasing me down, but it isn’t like we’ve had a conversation about going public yet.

    "Don’t worry," he assures me. "I made sure to exin we are still not mates."

    I stare at him with mild exasperation, not sure if I’m happy or irritated. Or just relieved. No, wait; not exactly relieved. If he sends a guardian spy to follow my every move, what am I going to do when Caeriel calls me over again...?

    Things are gettingplicated.

    So I just reply faintly, "Oh."

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