Chapter 12 – Regina
Chapter
Twelve
REGINA
The slide changes. Something about ancient Celtic rites and their influence on modern binding practices.
I should know since I made the presentation. And I should be taking notes for Villeneuve’s next class.
Instead, I’m standing in the corner of the room, staring at my personal grimoire and hoping no one notices it’s not work related.
Mood swings.
Increased appetite? (Hard to tell in an alpha wolf.)
Dark veins spreading.
Killian’s shoulder looked worse this morning. He tried to hide it with a long-sleeve shirt despite the fact that he’s always overheated, but I saw anyway. The black threads creeping outward from the bite mark, branching like lightning frozen under his skin.
It’s only been five days since he woke up, and there’s already a difference.
The slide changes again. Villeneuve’s voice drones on in that cultured baritone that usually commands my full attention. Today it’s just background noise as I stare at the line in my grimoire again.
Dark veins spreading.
Killian keeps looking at me like he’s memorizing my face. Like he’s trying to burn it into his brain before…
I don’t finish that thought. Can’t.
He’s been so careful around me since he woke up. Every movement is tense, like he’s constantly afraid he’s going to hurt me. At first I thought it was the effects of the stasis making him move more carefully, but that’s not it.
If anything, he’s stronger than he was before. He broke the door off its hinges yesterday just opening it.
He’s treating himself like a bomb that might go off at any moment.
The worst part is that I understand why.
I’ve read probably every book on the subject of werewolves at this point.
I know what the virus does. How it starts slow and then accelerates.
How the infected person maintains awareness for weeks, sometimes months, watching themselves transform into something unrecognizable.
The slide changes again and Villeneuve starts fielding questions from students who are clearly hoping they can filibuster him into not giving the exam today.
“Ms. Cook.”
I jerk upright so fast my pen goes flying. It clatters off my grimoire and rolls under the chair of the student in front of me, a pixie with purple hair who gives me a wary look as she retrieves it.
“Sorry,” I mutter, taking the pen back. “Thank you.”
Villeneuve is watching me from the front of the lecture hall. His expression is completely neutral, which somehow makes it worse. The rest of the class is also watching me. Nothing like a public moment of spacing out to really cement your reputation as the TA who has her shit together.
“The copies,” Villeneuve says mildly. “For the second part of the exam?”
Right. The copies. The thing I was supposed to do fifteen minutes ago.
“Of course. Sorry. I’ll—yes.” I gather my notebook and bag with as much dignity as I can manage, which isn’t much, and make my escape through the side door.
The copy room is in the basement of Briar Hall, because apparently no one who designed this building had ever heard of convenient access. The elevator is out of order—permanently, I think—so I take the stairs two at a time, trying to outrun my own embarrassment.
The copier is ancient and temperamental as fuck, and it jams if you look at it wrong. I feed in the exam pages and press the button, then lean against the wall while it whirs and clunks its way through the job.
I close my eyes.
Killian smiled at me this morning. For a second he looked like himself again. Then his hand went to his shoulder and the smile died.
The copier jams.
“Of fucking course,” I mutter, yanking open the paper tray. “I should turn you into a paperweight.”
“Can’t be any less efficient, I suppose.”
I spin around.
Villeneuve is standing in the doorway of the copy room like he materialized out of thin air, which he does a lot lately.
In fact, he just did a few minutes ago.
The man also moves like a cat. A very large, very dangerous cat who happens to turn into the most dangerous creature this side of reality at whim.
“You left class?” The words come out slightly more accusatory than I mean.
“They’re college students taking an exam, not toddlers.” He steps into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him. “Even if the distinction is sometimes unclear.”
I turn back to the copier, fishing out the crumpled page that caused the jam. “I’ll have the copies ready in a few minutes.”
“I’m not worried about the copies.” He moves to stand beside me, watching as I smooth out the paper. “I’m worried about you. Have you been sleeping?”
The question is quiet and unexpectedly gentle.
I don’t answer right away. Just stare at the copier as it resumes its whirring, pages sliding out one by one into the output tray.
“About as well as you can when one of your mates is slowly turning into the thing he hates most,” I mutter.
“Last I checked, he wasn’t turning into me.”
I glance up at him. “Was that a joke?”
“I do make them occasionally.” He leans against the ancient copier, looking as obnoxiously refined as ever. The dark circles under his eyes are gone, I realize. “Most people don’t notice.”
“You do kind of have that whole bone-dry sense of humor thing going on,” I say with a snort. “Is that a dragon thing?”
His blank expression cracks at the corners of his mouth. “More of a British thing, really. But I’m serious. How are you holding up?”
“Killian seems off,” I say finally. “Since he woke up. He’s…” I stop, trying to gather thoughts I’ve spent nearly a week burying. “He keeps looking at me like he’s saying goodbye.”
Villeneuve doesn’t respond immediately.
The copier fills the silence between us.
“The virus affects the mind as well as the body,” he says eventually. “He’s aware of what’s happening to him and what he’s becoming. That awareness is... difficult.”
“The veins under his skin are spreading.”
My voice comes out flat. I’ve never been someone who cries when I’m upset. Frustrated, occasionally, but when it comes to things like grief and sadness, it’s like there’s a big concrete wall. It all just keeps accumulating and the pressure builds and builds until something eventually cracks.
“I saw it this morning,” I add. “They’re darker than they were yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“That’s it? Just ‘yes’?”
“Would you prefer I lie? Told you everything was going to be fine?” He tilts his head slightly. “It’s not in my nature, but I can do that. If you’d prefer.”
I swallow around the lump in my throat. “I’d prefer the truth.”
“Then the truth is what you’ll have.”
“How much time does he have?”
“More than you fear, less than you’d like.” His dark eyes meet mine. “The progression is slow. Slower than it should be, actually. Killian is strong, and his bond with you and the others is helping. Giving him something to fight for.”
“But it’s not enough.”
“Perhaps not. Perhaps Vyse will find something, or perhaps we’ll discover another option entirely.” He pauses. “I’m not in the habit of giving false hope, Ms. Cook, but I’m not in the business of giving up either. Neither should you be.”
The copier finishes its job with a final thunk. I gather the stack of exams, tapping them against the counter to straighten the edges.
“You still haven’t told me,” I say without looking at him.
“Told you what?”
“Why you forced your way into the bond.” I do look at him now, pushing through the discomfort to make myself meet his eyes.
I can’t help but wonder if that’s also an effect of him being a dragon, the resistance I feel whenever I meet his gaze, but he doesn’t seem to appreciate being reminded of what he is, so I don’t ask.
“You said I’m your fated mate. You said you did it to protect me.
From yourself, of all things. But that’s not actually an explanation. ”
“Is it not?”
“No. It’s not.” I set down the exams. “You’re the most powerful being I’ve ever encountered. You could have kept your distance when you recognized the mate bond, but you didn’t. You wove yourself into my pack bond, into my soul, and you won’t tell me why.”
His expression doesn’t change. It just remains that perfect mask of composure that I’m starting to think isn’t composure at all, it’s…
Armor.
“I told you the truth before. Dragons are selfish, greedy monsters,” he says quietly. “We see what we want and we take it. Usually the simplest explanation is the correct one.”
He says it so matter-of-factly, but my intuition tells me this is the first time in this conversation he’s lied to me.
“You expect me to believe that? That the great Professor Villeneuve, master of subtlety and manipulation, just couldn’t help himself when it came to his fated mate?”
“I don’t expect you to believe anything.” He moves toward the door. “You asked a question, I gave you an answer.”
“That’s not—“
But he’s already gone. The door swings shut behind him, leaving me alone with a stack of exams and more questions than I started with.
I stand there for a long moment. Staring at the closed door.
He wants me to hate him.
The realization settles in alongside the uncomfortable weight of Killian’s illness. All the distance, all the cryptic non-answers, all the times this man has positioned himself as the villain of his own story…
It’s like he’s trying to make me distrust him. Trying to give me reasons to push him away.
Dragons are selfish, greedy monsters.
He said it like a confession. Or maybe an admission of guilt for a crime I didn’t accuse him of.
But that’s the thing about people who genuinely want to hurt you. They don’t warn you first. They don’t give you reasons to stay away. They draw you close and make you comfortable.
And then they strike.
Kyle never told me he was dangerous. Kyle told me he loved me, that he only wanted what was best for me. All he ever wanted in return was my absolute devotion.
And Villeneuve wants me to hate him.
Unfortunately for us both, that only makes it harder.