Grace of a Wolf-Chapter 119: Jack-Eye: What’s in a Name?

JACK-EYE

"I didn’t expect this attitude from you, of all people," she murmurs, turning her attention back to her phone.

Her words are another hit to my already bruised ego. I blink, then blink again, my mouth opening before promptly snapping shut. It feels like a habit around this woman.

My usual comebacks have abandoned me. Something hot crawls up my spine and settles in my chest, sharp and leaden all at once.

"What do you mean by that?" I ask, a little too sharply. Defensively.

The image of her with another man—her mouth, her lips, doing the things I’ve spent a lot of time imagining—slams into me with a possessive intensity I don’t know how to manage. It’s not like I haven’t watched her touch him. But this? Her going down on the wizard? That’s something else.

I might have to kill the guy. Wring his scrawny little neck. Maybe stomp on his dick for good measure.

"Beta Aaron Xhekaj of the Lycan Pack."

My name on her lips should not make my cock twitch. But it does. And I hate it. She hadn’t looked like she was even paying attention when I told her my name. She remembers. She keeps using it. It’s destroying something vital in my brain. No big deal. Just rational thought. And logic. And impulse control.

Poof. fɾeewebnoveℓ.co๓

Gone.

Vaporized because the way she says Xhekaj makes me want to fuck three or four kids out of her. At least.

"You have a reputation," she adds, scrolling idly. "I thought you’d be the last person bothered by what I have to do."

I know what she’s saying. She’s not wrong.

Fuck, I did hook up with a she-wolf the other day just to keep her distracted from Caine. That’s not exactly a noble deed, now is it? And how is it different from what Lyre’s saying now?

I rub a hand down my face, jaw clenched. Guilt crawls through me.

Like an army of centipedes.

Creepy, crawly, uncomfortable. Something I want to stomp out of existence.

"This is different," I mutter.

"Is it?" she asks, glancing up. "Or are you just not used to being on this end of the equation?"

"There’s no equation." It’s a lie, and we both damn well know it.

That’s the problem.

She knows.

She sees straight through me. Flays me with a single line.

I don’t know how she does it, but she freaking knows, damn it.

There’s no way she’s saying this out of nowhere. She’s not guessing. She’s not playing a game. Lyre has no need to do any of it. She just... already knows about me. Probably knows the name of every woman I’ve ever fucked.

Even I don’t know them all.

The silence drags out. I can’t answer her without admitting she’s right, but I don’t want to admit to my own past.

"Whatever, Jack-Eye. It’s just energy transfer. I’m not proposing to him."

Jack-Eye. Not Aaron. Right. Demoted. Stripped of first-name privilege. Casualty of a tactical blowjob.

Yep. I’m gonna have to kill Thom.

She tosses her phone onto the cheap motel table. It skids across the scratched laminate with a plastic clatter. Then she stretches her arms over her head, her shirt riding up just enough to reveal a pale strip of skin. I catch sight of a thin, intricate line of symbols etched there, disappearing beneath the hem.

My mouth goes dry. I glance away too late.

I want to lick them all.

"Guess I’ll have to blow him after all," she sighs, rolling her neck. "Hopefully it won’t take too long."

My jaw tightens until I feel something crack.

She starts massaging her jaw absentmindedly, rubbing at the hinge like she’s prepping for it. My eye twitches. My cock aches.

Traitorous.

Hopeful.

Is it hot in here? It’s hot in here.

"You’re staring, Beta," she says, not even bothering to look at me.

I cross the room in three strides and plant my hands on the arms of her chair, boxing her in. Her scent hits me like a damn freight train, wild and sharp and divine. I lean in until I’m close enough to count her lashes.

"You can only do it if I’m in the room," I growl.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just lets a slow, serpentine smile unfurl. "Didn’t realize you were into that sort of thing."

That smirk. It breaks something.

I snap.

My mouth crashes into hers. It’s a messy, hungry thing of a kiss—reckless and aching. My fingers slide into her hair, dragging her closer, angling her up to meet me.

And she lets me. Her lips part under mine, warm and soft. But there’s no hunger. No spark. No heat behind the compliance.

She’s just letting it happen.

And that should ruin it—but it doesn’t. Because I’m drowning. Her scent, her taste, the closeness I’ve been craving like air—I’m spiraling.

She exhales into my mouth, and something in me jolts. It’s like she’s breathing life directly into my soul.

Mine, damn it. She’s mine.

I want her.

Want to mark her. Claim her. Chase her down and ruin every trace of scent that doesn’t belong to me.

I want her pressed against the floor. The bed. The wall. Until her body sings only for me.

My claws prickle beneath my skin. I’m shaking. From the tension. From the restraint. From the desperate, visceral urge to pull her onto my lap and make her forget the wizard exists.

But I don’t.

When I finally pull back, my chest is heaving, my heart thundering in my ears.

She stares up at me, serene as a goddess.

Unruffled. Unimpressed.

Aside from how my hands have ruined her hair, there isn’t even a flush of color in her cheeks. Her eyes are clear. Her lips are pink and wet, but her expression is clinical.

"Do you want to see how a kiss should really feel?" she asks calmly.

My cock lurches again.

I should say yes.

I should say no.

But mostly, I want to die.