Chapter 2 – KILLIAN
Chapter
Two
KILLIAN
" B ro, I'm so fuckin' horny, I could bang the lamp at this point."
I follow Sean's longing gaze to the hideous floor lamp my aunt insisted on gifting us. It's some antique monstrosity with a hollow center and ugly tassels that are impossible to dust, not that anyone does. Perfect for a house full of wolves who occasionally destroy furniture during full moons.
Too bad the lamp is always the sole survivor.
"That's nasty, even for you." I line up my shot, squinting down the cue. The eight ball sits tantalizingly close to the corner pocket. "Find someone with standards as low as yours. Can't be that hard on this campus."
Rowan chuckles across the pool table, leaning on his cue. His eyes, amber and alert even when he's relaxed, track the shot I'm about to make. He's still sore about losing fifty bucks to me last week. Not my fault he can't hold his liquor and tries to play pool buzzed.
"I've tried, man." Sean flops dramatically onto our ratty couch, springs groaning under his substantial bulk. "The chicks I've tried to get with have all been taken or psycho. Or both."
Micah doesn't look up from his textbook spread across the coffee table. "Some of us are trying to pass chem, dickhead. Your blue balls aren't helping my equilibrium equations."
I sink the eight ball with a satisfying crack. Rowan mutters something in Arabic that I'm pretty sure questions my parentage. I've picked up enough of his native tongue over the years to know when he's cursing me out. I just flash him a grin.
"You know what would help, though?" Sean sits up, eyes bright with another genius idea. "A hot tutor. Kill two birds with one stone."
The cue nearly snaps in my grip. "We're not getting sidetracked by pussy when we're at fucking war with Villeneuve. And we still haven't found a Bonded." I rack the balls again with more force than necessary. "Or did you forget the dean is breathing down our necks about that?"
Rowan sighs deeply, dragging a hand through his thick black hair. "Not this again."
"Yes, this again." My wolf stirs beneath my skin, agitated by the mere thought of Professor Villeneuve. "He's up to something. You all know it."
"We know you think he's up to something," Micah corrects, finally looking up from his books. Dark circles rim his green eyes. He's been pulling all-nighters again. As pack alpha, I should probably enforce better sleep habits, but Micah is stubborn as hell.
I don't even know why he bothers. We're shifters, not mages.
The only reason the Council of Supernatural Relations requires us to graduate from university in the first place is to make sure we form a solid enough pack bond to keep us from causing too much chaos when we're unleashed on the unsuspecting human world.
And it's a prime opportunity to find a Bonded. A Bonded is the glue that holds any supernatural group together, pack or otherwise.
Or a glorified babysitter, depending on your take.
"He claims he's a vampire-shifter hybrid, but he doesn't smell like anything we've encountered," I argue, pacing now, the pool game forgotten. "And we're wolves . We have the sharpest noses on campus."
Sean snorts. "Maybe he's just really into cologne."
"Look at his name, for fuck's sake!" I bellow. " Villeneuve ? It even sounds evil. And you know what else? Evil has a 'V.' So does Villeneuve."
Micah blinks. "I thought you meant because it sounds like villain ."
I throw up my hands. "That, too!"
"So does 'vagina,'" Sean mumbles, "which is something none of us have touched in months."
"Speak for yourself," Rowan scoffs.
Before I can educate these idiots further on the obvious threat lurking in our Ancient History department, the doorbell rings. Not the normal college kid pounding, but an actual, proper use of the doorbell.
Bad fucking sign.
"I'll get it." I hand my cue to Rowan. "Don't touch the table. We're not done."
The floorboards of the old Victorian house creak beneath my boots as I stalk to the front door.
The alpha in me bristles at anyone sniffing around my territory after hours, but years of pack diplomacy have taught me to at least appear civilized.
I plaster on my best frat president smile and open the door.
Fuck .
The nymph standing on our porch is all business today. Her skin has that telltale green undertone, hair the color of fresh wheat trailing down her back in a tight braid. Sharp gray pantsuit. Clipboard. The campus compliance supervisor. Melissa? Melinda? Something with an M.
"Mr. Underwood." Her voice carries that musical lilt all nymphs have, but there's steel underneath. "Routine audit."
"Ms..." I trail off, hoping she'll fill in the blank.
"Morgan." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "We met last semester. After the... incident?"
Right. The "incident" that led to several priceless statues being destroyed in the university quad. Not my pack's finest moment.
"Of course, Ms. Morgan." I step aside, gesturing her in with what I hope looks like welcoming confidence rather than the simmering annoyance I actually feel. "Always a pleasure."
She steps into our hallway, nose wrinkling slightly at the unmistakable scent of wolf pack. A pack of four alphas, specifically. Nymphs are sensitive and not exactly the biggest fans of shifters, but to her credit, she doesn't comment.
"I'll need to see your membership records, event logs for the past semester, and proof of your Bonded registration."
There it is. The real reason for this "routine" audit.
“The guys are in the rec room. Records are in my office upstairs.” I jab a thumb in that direction. “Would you like some coffee? Brewski?” The very picture of hospitality. My mother would be proud.
"No, thank you." Her fingers tap impatiently against her clipboard.
I lead her to the rec room, where my pack brothers are failing miserably at looking casual.
Sean has somehow acquired a book—upside down.
Micah is actually studying now, head bent so low over his notes that his nose nearly touches the paper.
Rowan is examining a pool cue like it contains the mysteries of the universe.
"Ms. Morgan, campus compliance." I make the introduction short and sweet. "She's here to audit us."
Three sets of eyes snap to the nymph, then to me, a silent question passing between us. I give the slightest shake of my head. Stay cool. I'll handle this.
"Gentlemen." Morgan nods curtly. "I'll try not to take up too much of your time."
"Take all the time you need," Sean says with a grin that's gotten him into more beds—and trouble—than I can count. "We're just hanging out. Studying. Normal student stuff."
Morgan ignores him completely, flipping through papers on her clipboard. "I see from our records that Lupe Tau still hasn't registered a Bonded with the university."
The tension in the room spikes. Even without our enhanced senses, any idiot could feel it.
"We're working on it," I say smoothly. "Finding the right magical practitioner for a wolf pack bond is delicate work. But you'd know all about that, being a fae and all."
"Nymph," she snaps.
I give a stiff laugh. "Right. Sorry."
Her eyebrow arches. "Indeed. Well, I don't need to remind you that according to university bylaws, all supernatural groups must have a registered magical counterbalance by graduation. In your case, by the end of the semester."
She doesn't need to remind us. But she's nice enough to do it anyway.
"Failure to comply will result in the disbanding of Lupe Tau and the expulsion of all its members." She delivers this with all the emotion of someone reading a grocery list. "And I certainly don't need to remind you what happens to packs who don't graduate."
Oh, she's good. Hitting below the belt with that one.
Unaffiliated wolf packs without college degrees are banished to the outskirts of society, not permitted to live among humans or even other supernaturals.
And the packs themselves are usually completely disbanded by magical force.
Considering the fact that lone wolf status is a fate worse than death to most wolf shifters, it's a sufficient deterrent.
Lone wolves end up as muscle for vampires or worse—running errands for witches like Sadie and her kind.
The thought makes my skin crawl.
"We'll have our Bonded registered well before the deadline," I assure her, forcing confidence into my voice even as doubt gnaws at my gut.
I leave off the fact that we've been searching for two years with no luck. Most witches want nothing to do with wolf packs. It's all vampires this, fae that.
"Excellent." Morgan makes a note on her clipboard. "I'll need to see those records now."
"Right this way." I lead her upstairs to my room, which doubles as the pack's administrative office. And energy drink storage whenever there's a sale at Costco.
It takes about thirty minutes of her rifling through our paperwork, making disapproving noises at our event planning— "Fire limbo is not an approved fraternity activity, Mr. Underwood" —before she finally leaves with a warning that she'll be back in two weeks to check our progress on the Bonded situation.
I close the door behind her with more force than strictly necessary, then press my forehead against the cool wood, allowing myself five seconds of pure frustration before returning to my role as the unflappable pack alpha.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
When I return to the rec room, Sean is sprawled across the couch on his phone again, Micah has his head in his hands, and Rowan is methodically racking the pool balls.
"Well, that was pleasant," I say, dropping into an armchair.
"Why do they always send nymphs?" Micah grumbles. "It's like they're trying to torture us. It’s a fucking pussy drought."
"Because you're a nympho," Rowan shoots back without missing a beat.
"Shut up. All of you." I run a hand through my hair, exhaustion settling into my bones. "We need to figure this out. The deadline's real this time."
"I've been thinking," Sean starts, and I immediately brace myself.
"Dangerous," Rowan mutters, voicing my exact thought.
"No, listen." Sean sits up, suddenly serious. "What if we go to a witch on campus and have a spell done to find our Bonded? Like, a locator spell or something?"
"You want to use witch magic to find a witch?" Micah snorts. "Isn't that a conflict of interest?"
He just learned that term in Intro to Ethics and he won't shut up about it. But for once, it actually kind of fits.
"Not necessarily," I say slowly, the idea taking root. "Most campus witches are independents. Unaffiliated with the major covens."
And definitely not affiliated with whichever shady coven Villeneuve is connected to. I'm sure of that connection, even if I can't prove it yet. The timing of his arrival at Stormvale University two years ago and the start of our pack's troubles can't be a coincidence.
First, there were the random magical attacks on campus.
Then Micah's unexplained shift during the new moon last semester—the incident that led to the destroyed statues.
No wolf loses control like that outside a full moon unless magic is involved.
Dark magic. And now, with only three months left in the semester, we're facing expulsion if we don't find a Bonded.
All signs point to Villeneuve.
"It's worth a shot," I admit, surprising even myself. "We're running out of options."
"Holy shit," Sean yelps. "Did Kill just agree with me? Someone mark the calendar."
"Don't get used to it." I glare at him, but there's no heat behind it. "Anyone know a witch who might help us without trying to enslave us or drain our life force?"
Silence falls over the room. We all know what happened to the Rho Gamma pack three years ago.
They were bound to a witch who used them as magical batteries until they were little more than shells.
They still wander campus like zombies, following her every command. A cautionary tale for all shifters.
"There's that coven that hangs out at the Cauldron," Micah suggests. "They're mostly harmless. Into crystals and tarot readings."
"Too weak," Rowan counters. "We need someone with real power for a location spell specific enough to find our Bonded. Not just any witch will do."
He's right. The bond between a wolf pack and their magical counterpart is sacred, ancient.
It's not just about university regulations. It’s about balance, too.
A strong pack needs an equally strong magical practitioner to channel the excess energy we generate.
Without that outlet, we risk losing control, especially during full moons.
Like what happened with Micah.
"You know," Micah says in that cautious tone that suggests he knows I'm not going to like wha the's about to say, "there's always?—"
"No," I growl.
"But—"
"No."
"But she could?—"
"Not Sadie!" I snarl, slamming my fist down on the pool table hard enough to make them all jump.
"It was just a suggestion," he mumbles.
"Yeah, bro, chill out," Rowan says, always jumping in to play peacemaker. I guess someone has to. Usually, it's a quality I appreciate, but not when it's turned on me.
"You know what happened the last time we asked Sadie for anything," I remind them. "I was missing fur for months. It still grows back white in those spots."
"Yeah, but she's a senior now," Micah reasons. "She's gotten way better! She hasn't almost killed anyone in months."
"That's… actually less than comforting," Rowan says, eyeing him warily.
"It's not like we have any better options," says Sean. "Witches hate us."
" Sadie hates us," I remind him.
"Yeah, but she's Micah's stepsister. She kind of has to help," he reasons.
I groan. The day Sean is being the logical one is the day I know we're fucked.
"Fine," I growl. "You can ask Sadie, but there are gonna be ground rules. No blood magic, no fire, and no demons in the frat house."
Micah's face brightens immediately. "You got it, boss! I'll call her."
"Yeah! Guess who's getting a Bonded? Twenty-four seven magic pussy!" Sean whoops, trying to high five Rowan, who just leaves him hanging until he drops his hand in defeat.
"You repulse me," Rowan says flatly. "A Bonded isn't just some magical Fleshlight you can stick your dick in anytime you feel like. They're a pack's most sacred treasure. A gift from the gods."
"Yeah, a sacred treasure you can stick your dick in anytime you feel like," Sean counters.
Rowan's lip curls back in a snarl of disgust and he shoves his pool cue into Sean's chest. "If anyone needs me, I'll be cleaning. This place isn't fit for a pack of beasts, let alone a witch."
I look around the frat house with beer cans on more surfaces than not, and a thick layer of dust covering anything, and realize he has a point. Orderliness has taken a backseat to keeping the pack out of the dean's office—and supernatural prison, for that matter.
We really need to get our shit together.