Chapter 15 – REGINA
Chapter
Fifteen
REGINA
H ow the hell am I supposed to dress to present myself to a pack of wolves who are convinced I'm their fated mate?
Should I go casual? Jeans and a t-shirt, projecting indifference? Or maybe something sharp and professional to establish clear boundaries and tell them I’m the wrong witch to fuck with?
Either way, I can't meet them looking like I just crawled out of bed after a post-breakfast afternoon nap.
I rummage through my duffel for the fourth time like something might magically pop out, wishing I'd packed with more forethought than "grab what fits and run.
" Eventually, I settle on my one pair of decent plaid pants and a simple black blouse.
Not exactly formal wear, but at least I won't look completely disheveled.
The real decision comes next.
Do I use the precious magical energy I’m still recovering on a glamour?
I've gone most of the day with my scars exposed, but I’ve been alone in the house, other than Margot. And I have no idea where Margot even is. For all I know, she lives in the walls. Pretty sure she’s a ghost, and I’m only half joking.
Yeah, no. The thought of facing the wolves without my mask makes my stomach twist into knots.
Not happening—however tempting it is to show the pack my full face again and tell them this is what they can look forward to staring at for the rest of our lives.
Maybe then they’d stop insisting I’m their mate.
Probably not, but maybe.
I just don’t have the fucking stomach for it.
I gather my remaining energy, carefully channeling it into the familiar pattern of the glamour spell. The ritual is automatic after three years, but it still costs more than I should probably spend right now.
A knock at my door shatters my concentration.
"Regina?" Villeneuve's voice carries through the wood. "It's nearly time. Are you prepared?"
"Just a minute," I call back, taking one last look in the mirror.
An unmarred face stares back at me. A lie I've grown comfortable wearing. I straighten my shoulders, trying to project a confidence I definitely don't feel, and open the door.
Villeneuve stands in the hallway looking immaculate as always, not a wrinkle in his charcoal suit despite the fact he’s been gone all day. His eyes flick briefly to my face, noting the glamour without comment. Whether he approves or disapproves, he keeps it to himself.
"You look lovely," he says instead, subtly offering his arm with old-world courtesy. "Shall we?"
I don't take his arm, but I follow him down the corridor. "How is this going to work, exactly? Are we meeting them somewhere neutral, or...?"
"I've adjusted the wards to permit their entry into the western parlor only," he explains as we descend the grand staircase. "The moment they attempt to venture elsewhere in the house or cause any disturbance, they'll find themselves ejected quite forcefully onto the lawn."
The clinical detachment in his tone makes me wonder how many times he's done exactly that.
"And if they try anything?" I ask.
Villeneuve's lips curve into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. “Then they'll discover that my wards are the least of their concerns.”
We've reached the bottom of the stairs, and I pause, taking a deep breath. Four wolves wait on the other side of a door somewhere in this maze of a house. Four wolves who claim I'm their mate. Or maybe they just want to use my power. Who the fuck knows.
“Are you ready?” Villeneuve asks. “You can still change your mind.”
"I'm ready," I say with far more conviction than I feel.
Villeneuve studies me for a moment, then nods. With a casual gesture, the doors swing open, and there's an immediate flurry of movement on the other side. Four tall figures practically stumble into the room, clearly having been pressed against the door listening.
"Dignified as always," Villeneuve remarks dryly.
Killian Underwood straightens to his full imposing height, looking faintly embarrassed but attempting to cover it with bravado.
“Professor,” he grits out.
The wolves cluster together in the doorway, all trying to appear casual and failing miserably.
They're dressed up, I realize with surprise.
Not in suits or anything, but clearly in more formal clothing than they would usually wear—dark jeans without tears, button-down shirts, and the blond one that crushed Kyle into the dirt even has his hair styled.
The effort is... unexpected.
Their eyes find me immediately, and that same look of reverence washes over their faces. Four pairs of eyes—ice blue, warm brown, amber, and hazel—fixed on me as if I hold their lives in my hands.
No pressure or anything.
"Ms. Cook," Villeneuve says, drawing my attention back to him. "Would you prefer I remain present for this meeting?"
I consider it. Having Villeneuve here would provide a buffer, a safety net if things go south. But it would also prevent any genuine conversation. And if I'm being honest with myself, I want to hear what these wolves have to say without an audience.
“It's alright,” I tell him, trying to project confidence. “I can handle it.”
"As you wish." He inclines his head slightly, then turns to fix the wolves with a cold stare. "Remember what I said, gentlemen. Merely a word from Ms. Cook, and our arrangement terminates."
He doesn't bother disguising the threat, and the wolves shift uneasily.
"We understand," Killian says, his deep voice serious.
Villeneuve gives me one last evaluating look before withdrawing, closing the doors behind him. I'm suddenly alone with four massive wolf shifters in a room that feels much smaller than it did a moment ago.
And they’re still staring at me.
“Let’s sit down,” I say finally, gesturing to the elegant arrangement of sofas and chairs. I take a high-backed armchair for myself, partly because it looks comfortable and partly because it makes me feel like I'm just conducting a simple job interview.
Technically speaking, that’s what this is.
The wolves exchange glances, a silent communication passing between them before they move to sit.
Killian and the one with glasses take the sofa directly across from me, while the other two settle in adjacent chairs.
They're all perched on the edges of their seats, radiating a restrained energy that reminds me of coiled springs.
The silence stretches, growing more awkward by the second. They're watching me too intently, like I might vanish if they blink. If I weren’t constantly hyperaware of my glamour, I might be flattered. Instead, I’m vaguely unnerved.
"You can go ahead," I prompt when it becomes clear they're waiting for me to speak first. "I'm willing to listen to what you have to say."
"What happened to your scars?" the blond one blurts out, immediately wincing as Killian's elbow connects sharply with his ribs. The other two wolves glare at him in perfect synchronicity.
"What? I didn't mean anything by it," he protests, rubbing his side. "I was just curious."
I sigh, fingers automatically twitching toward my face before I stop myself. "It's a glamour. I'm more comfortable with it on."
"That's fine," Killian says quickly, shooting another warning glance at the blond wolf. "But we hope you know you don't need to wear it if you don't want to. Especially if it takes energy."
I blink, surprised they've put that much together. "It does take energy," I admit. "But it's fine for now. Just not sustainable long-term without... an energy source."
"We can provide all the energy you need," the one with glasses says eagerly, leaning forward. Then he flushes. "Not for that specifically. Not unless you want it for that. But for anything."
“We can provide for anything you need,” the dark-haired one with the slight accent adds solemnly. He seems like slightly less of a himbo than the others. “And not just energy.”
I have no fucking idea how to respond to that.
"We're getting ahead of ourselves," Killian cuts in, dragging a hand through his hair. He takes a deep breath and starts again. "I think formal introductions are in order. I'm Killian Underwood, leader of the Underwood pack and president of Lupe Tau fraternity."
He gestures to the others in turn. "This is Rowan Miftah, our strategist and resident brainiac.
" The dark-haired, solemn one nods. "Micah Fitzgerald, QB of the football team, but don't let that fool you.
He's kind of a nerd." The one with glasses gives an awkward wave.
"And Sean Bennett, our..." He hesitates.
"Resident hottie," Sean supplies with a grin and a wink that's probably gotten him out of trouble his entire life.
"I was going to say 'resident dumbass,'" Killian corrects dryly.
Despite myself, I find a small smile tugging at my lips. “I’m Regina Cook,” I say, feeling absurdly formal. “Hi.”
"We know," Sean says, then catches himself. "I mean, we heard Villeneuve say it last night, and we kind of tried to look you up. Not in a creepy way! Just because we needed to understand about siphons and stuff."
I sigh. "About that," I say, directing my attention to Killian, who seems the most composed of the group. "Last night you said I was your mate. Did you really mean that?"
Four heads nod in unison.
"How can you be so sure?" I press. "You don't even know me."
Killian leans forward, his ice-blue eyes intense. "It's instinctual. Your scent, your energy... everything about you calls to our wolves. It's like—" He struggles for words.
"Like finding a missing piece you didn't know was missing," Rowan supplies softly.
"Like smelling home for the first time," Micah and Sean say at once.
“And there are fresh baked cookies,” Sean adds.
“I smell like cookies ?” I ask doubtfully, arching an eyebrow.
“No,” Rowan says immediately. “Ancient forest after rainfall. Earth in its purest form.”
"Old magic and emerald green," Killian agrees, his eyes never leaving mine.
"Lightning-struck oak," Micah says with a smile.
"Magic and thunderstorms," Sean adds, grinning.