Chapter 17 – REGINA
REGINA
Aaaand it's another day of studying.
Studying because everything is tense as fuck in the pack house and it's my favorite way to get some time to think, which is why it doesn't matter that the words in Eliza Underwood's grimoire look like incomprehensible squiggles to me right now.
My brain is refusing to process a single word.
Instead, it's stuck on a loop of teaching assistant and graduate school and what the actual fuck am I doing?
The kitchen table is covered in research materials I've been pretending to study since Killian stormed out this morning. He didn't say where he was going. Just kissed me breathless, muttered something about "handling it" and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the windows.
Through our bond, I can feel him somewhere across campus, tense with a knot of frustration coiled around him that's been steadily tightening all day.
He got back late last night and I felt him curl up in the nest with me, Micah, Rowan, and Sean, who somehow ended up wrapped around me like a giant snoring koala.
By the time I woke up, he was in the gym pumping arms like he's trying to purge demons from inside his head.
I know it's getting closer to the deadline, and he's freaking out because I still haven't announced my decision. But after the conversation I had with Micah and Rowan, I think he can sense what that decision will be.
Killian thinks the file Villeneuve had on them is proof he’s some kind of mastermind stalker. But honestly? If I had four territorial alpha wolves fucking with me for years, I’d keep a dossier too.
The pack sees a villain because he’s a rival predator on their turf. I just see a meticulous academic covering his ass against my chaotic boyfriends.
"Brain fuel delivery!" Sean announces, materializing beside me with a plate that defies all known laws of culinary logic.
I look down at the offering. Cheese cubes. Pepperoni slices. What appears to be a pickle spear wrapped in cream cheese. And is that... a Pop-Tart?
"What is this?" I ask, poking at the pickle… thing.
"Genius," he says proudly, settling into the chair beside me. "You've been stress-reading for hours. Gotta keep those brain cells fed."
"With pickles and Pop-Tarts."
"The sweet-salty-tangy combo is scientifically proven to enhance cognitive function." He says this with such conviction that I almost believe him. Almost.
"Where did you read that?"
"I didn't. I made it up just now." He grins, completely shameless. "But it sounds right, doesn't it?"
Despite everything, I laugh. "You're ridiculous."
"You say that like it's a bad thing." He pushes the plate closer. "Try the pickle. Trust me."
I pick up the cream-cheese-wrapped monstrosity, bracing for disaster. One bite, and—
Fuck.
It's actually good.
"See?" Sean beams like this is the proudest he's ever been. "Told you. My culinary instincts are unmatched."
"This is genuinely disturbing," I admit, taking another bite. "How is this working?"
"Because I'm a genius. We've established this."
I eat in silence for a moment, Sean watching me with that puppy-dog intensity that should be annoying but somehow isn't. Through our bond, I feel his genuine concern beneath the playful exterior. He's worried about me.
They all are.
"Killian's been gone a while," I say finally.
Sean's expression shifts, just slightly. "Yeah. He's... determined."
"To find an alternative to Villeneuve."
"Yep."
"Even though there isn't one."
Sean fidgets with a cheese cube, rolling it between his fingers. "Look, I know Killian can be a stubborn asshole. That goes for all of us. But he's just trying to protect you."
"I know." I set down the half-eaten pickle thing. "But I'm not sure what he thinks he's protecting me from."
"Villeneuve's a scary fucker who probably sleeps in a coffin and picks his teeth with human bones," Sean says matter-of-factly. "That's what."
I sigh. "You don't know that."
"I don't not know it either." He leans back in his chair, studying me. "You're really thinking about taking his offer, aren't you? The TA thing."
I hesitate, then nod. "It's complicated."
"Because of Kyle?"
The name makes me flinch. Sean notices, his expression softening.
"He ruined a lot of things for you," he says quietly, uncharacteristically gentle all of a sudden. "Made you doubt yourself. Made you think wanting things was selfish, huh?"
"How do you—"
"I can feel it through the bond, Storm." He taps his chest. "All that anxiety. All that second-guessing. It's not just you being careful. It's him still fucking with your head."
The truth of it hits me like a slap. Leave it to Sean to strip bare all the pretense I've been playing with, even in my own mind, and cut right to the truth.
"I don't want to make the same mistakes," I whisper.
"You won't." Sean's hand finds mine across the table, his grip warm and solid. "Because you're not the same person you were with him. And Villeneuve isn't Kyle. Even if he does collect teeth for unknown and evil purposes."
I roll my eyes. "You don't trust him either."
"Nope. Not even a little." He grins. "But I trust you. If you think this is the right move, then fuck it. We'll make it work."
Before I can respond, the front door crashes open.
Again.
"I'VE GOT IT!" Killian's voice booms through the house, triumphant and slightly unhinged. "I FOUND THE FUCKING SOLUTION!"
Sean and I exchange a look.
What the fuck did he do?
Footsteps thunder down the hall. Killian appears in the kitchen doorway, looking like he's just won the lottery and also maybe committed several felonies. His hair is disheveled, his shirt untucked, and there's a manic gleam in his ice-blue eyes that immediately puts me on alert.
"Killian—" I start.
"I found us a faculty sponsor!" He steps aside with a flourish, revealing—
A man.
A very confused, very nervous-looking man in a janitor's uniform.
He's clutching a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other, his weathered face pale beneath a Stormvale baseball cap. Maybe mid-sixties, with the kind of build that comes from years of manual labor. And he's shaking. Actually trembling.
I stare.
Sean stares.
The janitor stares at the floor like it might offer an escape route.
"Killian," I say slowly, keeping my voice very calm. "Did you kidnap the janitor?"
"What? No!" Killian looks genuinely offended. "Dale's here of his own free will. Aren't you, Dale?"
He claps a massive hand on Dale's shoulder. The poor man flinches, the mop clattering against the bucket.
"Please," Dale whispers, his voice cracking. "I have a family."
Oh my gods.
"This is insane," I say flatly, standing up from the table. "Killian, what the actual fuck?"
"The Dean never specified it had to be a professor," Killian argues, his grip still firm on Dale's shoulder. "Just faculty. And Dale here is technically faculty. Right, Dale?"
"No," Dale squeaks. "I'm staff. Facilities and maintenance staff. Not faculty. Very different unions."
Killian's eyes flash blue. "Shhhh, Dale."
The janitor goes even paler.
I close my eyes, counting to ten. Then twenty. When I open them again, Killian is still standing there with his hostage, looking absurdly pleased with himself.
Yep. He's definitely gone off the deep end.
"Step away from Dale, Killian." I move around the table, keeping my voice level. "We need to talk."
"But—"
"Now."
Something in my tone must penetrate his alpha skull, because he releases Dale's shoulder. The poor man sags with visible relief.
"This is awkward," Sean announces, pushing up from his chair. He throws an arm around Dale's shoulders, and the janitor goes rigid again. "Hey buddy, you like nachos? I make these things I call whorehouse nachos. They're life-changing."
"I... what?" Dale looks between us, clearly trying to figure out if this is real life or some kind of fever dream.
"Come on, I'll show you." Sean steers him toward the door. "You play GTA?"
"I don't—I'm supposed to be cleaning the science building—"
"Science building can wait, Dale-o. Priorities."
They disappear down the hall, Sean's cheerful chatter fading into the distance. I hear the den door slam, then the unmistakable sound of a video game starting up.
Maybe Sean can charm us out of a felony. That's certainly not going to help our case with the Dean.
I turn back to Killian.
He's watching me warily now, the manic energy draining away to reveal genuine anxiety beneath. Through our bond, I feel it clearly. The overwhelming alpha need to fix this problem before I make what he sees as a terrible mistake.
"I know you're desperate," I say, gentler now. "But this has to stop."
"I'm not desperate. I'm being proactive."
"You kidnapped a janitor, Killian."
He runs both hands through his hair, making it stand up at even more chaotic angles. "I don't want you working for Villeneuve, Regina. That's my literal fucking nightmare. The point is—"
"The point is I've already made my decision," I interrupt.
He stops mid-stride. "What?"
"I'm going to accept his offer." The words come out steady. "The teaching assistant position. All of it."
Killian's face goes through several expressions in rapid succession. Shock. Disbelief. Anger. Then something that looks almost like betrayal.
"You can't be serious."
"I am."
"Regina—"
"Let me finish." I move closer, forcing him to look at me. "This isn't just because Villeneuve is literally our only option for a faculty sponsor. Although he is, and kidnapping Dale proves it."
"I didn't kidnap—"
"You absolutely did." I hold up a hand when he tries to argue.
"But that's not why I'm doing this. I'm doing it because.
.." I take a breath. "Because I want to go to graduate school, Killian.
I always did. Before Kyle, before the coven, before everything went to shit.
I wanted to study theoretical magic. To understand the deeper mechanics of what I am, what I can do. "