Chapter 19 – REGINA
REGINA
Finding Professor Villeneuve on campus proves easier than expected. He's sitting on a stone bench near the philosophy building, a leather-bound book open in his lap and a paper cup of coffee in hand.
He looks like something out of a dark academia Pinterest board. The man has style, no doubt about that.
I approach with what I hope is confidence, and pray that whatever he is doesn't have the ability to hear my blood pressure. The bond pulses with distant anxiety from four directions. My wolves, all scattered across campus, all unhappy about me doing this alone.
Villeneuve looks up before I'm within speaking distance. Of course he does. He probably heard me coming from the parking lot.
"Ms. Cook." He closes his book with a soft snap, one eyebrow arching. "I'm surprised you're without your usual entourage. No growling shadows lurking in the bushes today?"
"They're in class." I stop a few feet away, keeping my voice neutral. "Except Micah, who got called into an emergency football team meeting. Whatever that even is."
"Ah. The Homecoming float situation, I imagine." At my blank look, he waves a dismissive hand. "Campus politics. Tedious but unavoidable, even in a school full of magic practitioners."
"Right." I shift my weight, suddenly aware of how exposed I feel without at least one massive alpha at my back. "They're not happy about me being here alone."
"I imagine not." Villeneuve's lips curve into something that would look like amusement on a less intimidating face. "Four alpha wolves forced to attend lectures and campus errands while their newly bonded mate confronts the mysterious professor unsupervised. The horror."
"They're protective."
"They're territorial." He gestures to the empty space on the bench beside him. "But since they've graciously allowed you to venture forth unescorted, perhaps we could speak? You clearly have something on your mind."
I hesitate for exactly one second before sitting. The stone is cold through my jeans, but the morning sun provides enough warmth to make it tolerable. Villeneuve produces a second coffee cup from beside him—when did that get there?—and offers it to me.
"Vanilla latte," he says. "Two sugars. I believe that's your preference?"
"You knew I'd come."
"I had a hunch. The deadline is tomorrow evening."
I take the cup, trying not to show how unsettling it is that he knows my coffee order. "Do you keep files on everyone's beverage preferences, or just potential teaching assistants?"
"I observe." He takes a sip of his own coffee, looking out across the quad where students hurry between buildings. "It's a useful skill in my line of work."
"Ancient History and Occult Studies?"
"Among other things."
We sit in silence for a moment. The coffee is perfect, exactly how I like it. Okay, so that's slightly strange.
"I've made a decision," I say finally. "About your offer."
He doesn't react, just continues watching the passing students with that unreadable expression. "I assumed as much, given that you sought me out alone despite your pack's objections."
"I'm going to accept."
Still no reaction. "Excellent."
"But I have conditions."
Now he turns to look at me, and there's something new in those dark eyes. Interest, maybe. Or he's planning something. With Villeneuve, it's hard to tell the difference.
"Conditions," he repeats, his accent curling around the word. "How intriguing. Please, elaborate."
I wrap my hands around the warm cup, using it as an anchor.
"First, I want our working relationship kept separate from your sponsorship of the pack.
You're their faculty advisor, fine. But when I'm in your office or your classroom, I'm your teaching assistant.
Not the wolves' mate. Not Lupe Tau's Bonded. Just Regina Cook, graduate student."
"Reasonable." He tilts his head slightly. "What else?"
"I don't want special treatment because I'm a siphon.
" The words come out harder than I intended, but I don't soften them.
"I know we're rare. I know that makes me valuable in certain circles.
But I'm not interested in being treated like some kind of magical curiosity.
If I'm going to do this, I want to earn my position.
Not have it handed to me because of what I am. "
Villeneuve studies me for a long moment, his gaze sharp enough to cut. Through the bond, I feel my wolves stirring, probably sensing my elevated heartbeat. I try to project confidence through the bond to reassure them.
Killian's presence pushes closer, protective even from across campus. Even more so than usual. He seemed tired this morning and I don't think he slept well. I'm sure it's hard for him that I'm with his so-called mortal enemy right now.
"An admirable stance," Villeneuve says finally. "Though somewhat naive. Your nature as a siphon is intrinsically tied to your magical abilities. Ignoring that connection would be counterproductive to your education."
"I'm not asking you to ignore it. I'm asking you not to treat it as my only defining characteristic." I meet his eyes, refusing to look away. "Kyle did that. Made me feel like my only value was in what I could produce, what energy I could channel. I'm not doing that again. Not for anyone."
His eyes widen slightly in recognition, I think.
"Understood," he says quietly. "I have no intention of repeating your former coven leader's mistakes. My interest in your development is academic, not exploitative."
"That's another thing." I set down my coffee cup on the bench between us. "Why are you doing this? The sponsorship, the teaching assistant position, all of it. What's in it for you?"
He doesn't answer immediately. Around us, campus life continues, but the space between Villeneuve and me feels separate. Like a sacred circle where even the air is alive.
"You're direct," he observes. "I appreciate that. Most people dance around their actual questions for far too long."
"I don't have time for dancing around the truth. My mates will be out of class in an hour, and if I'm not back at the house by then, Killian will launch a fucking search party."
"He does seem the type." Villeneuve takes another measured sip of his coffee. "The truth is, Ms. Cook, I meant what I said during our first meeting. Siphons are rare. Powerful. And extraordinarily vulnerable to exploitation by those who would use your abilities for their own gain."
"Like Kyle."
"Like many others before him and, without intervention, many others after.
" He sets his own cup aside, turning to face me more fully.
"I have seen what happens when siphons fall into the wrong hands.
The damage they can cause—and the damage that can be done to them.
It is not pleasant. And I have an obligation to prevent that. "
The words have weight to them. Like he's speaking from experience rather than theory.
"Because of your role on the Council?" I ask warily.
"Among other things."
Somehow, I know asking him to clarify will be a lost cause.
"You've known other siphons?"
"I have known many supernatural beings over the course of my career." The non-answer is smooth, practiced. "Some thrived. Others were destroyed by their own potential or by those who coveted it. I prefer to see talent nurtured rather than wasted."
"So you're, what, a supernatural guidance counselor?"
His lips twitch. "Something like that. I feel a responsibility to help shape creatures as rare and vulnerable to exploitation as yourself. Consider it a long-term investment in the magical community's stability."
It's a good answer. Reasonable. Even noble.
I don't believe a word of it.
Oh, there's truth buried in there somewhere.
Villeneuve is too smart to lie outright.
But he's holding something back. Something significant.
My instincts are screaming it. Not quite the same instincts that warned me about Kyle's charm, the same gut feeling that made me flee the coven before things got worse.
But Villeneuve is playing a long game.
And I'm a piece on his chessboard.
The question is whether that matters enough to walk away.
I take a breath, pushing down the unease. "Can I ask you something else? Something related to magic."
"Of course."
"During the bonding ritual..." I hesitate, trying to find the right words.
The memory of that night is vivid. The surge of power, the breaking of the coven bond, the overwhelming sensation of connecting with four distinct consciousnesses.
And something else. "There was a moment, right at the end.
I saw something. Green light, like emerald fire.
And there was a fifth presence. Something that wasn't the wolves. "
Villeneuve goes very still.
It's barely noticeable. Just a fractional pause in his breathing, a slight tightening of his fingers around his coffee cup, but I catch it. After years of reading Kyle's microexpressions to gauge his moods, I've gotten pretty damn good at spotting tells.
"A green light," he repeats, his voice neutral. "And a presence."
"Yes. The wolves felt it too, through the bond. Something ancient. Powerful."
I watch his face, searching for any crack in that composed mask.
"How fascinating." The words are smooth and dry, completely devoid of the genuine interest I saw earlier. "Bonding rituals are complex magical events. Energy fluctuations can manifest in unexpected ways, especially when a siphon is involved."
"So you have no idea what it could have been?"
His dark eyes meet mine.
"Not in the slightest," he says.
He's full of shit.
It's so obvious now from the twitching tightness in his lips that in retrospect, what shocks me is realizing this is the first time he's lied to me. Nothing he has told me so far has been untrue.
Villeneuve knows exactly what that presence was, or at least has a theory he's unwilling to share. The way he went rigid at my description, the careful choice of his response. All of it screams deception.
But pressing him won't help. Whatever he's hiding, he's not going to reveal it on a bench in the middle of campus. Not to me.
Not yet.
Which is all the more reason to get close enough to him to figure it out.
Villeneuve stands abruptly, brushing invisible dust from his impeccable suit.
For someone who dresses like a fucking vampire and talks about supernatural history like he lived it, he doesn't look a day over thirty.
I seriously have no clue what to make of this man.
I'm even more confused now than I was before.
"I'm afraid I must be going," he says stiffly. "Lectures wait for no one, and I have a particularly recalcitrant cohort of undergraduates to educate about the historical significance of blood magic in pre-Roman civilizations."
"Of course." I stand as well, reaching for my coffee. "When should I start? As your assistant, I mean."
"Tomorrow morning." He adjusts his cufflinks with sharp movements. "Eight o'clock sharp. My office is in Briar Hall, third floor. Bring the pack registration paperwork, and I'll have it filed with the Dean's office before noon."
I nearly choke on my coffee. "Tomorrow? That's—"
"Extremely soon, yes." He flashes a sharp smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "But you did say you wanted no special treatment, Ms. Cook. My assistants begin work immediately. I see no reason to make an exception in your case."
The bastard.
He's using my own conditions against me, and he knows it. The glint in his eyes confirms that he finds this thoroughly entertaining.
"Fine," I say through gritted teeth. "Tomorrow at eight."
"Wonderful. I look forward to it." He picks up his leather-bound book, tucking it under one arm. "Oh. And Ms. Cook? Try to get some sleep tonight. You'll need your energy."
With that ominous parting shot, he turns and walks away. His stride is unhurried, confident, a man who knows exactly where he's going and has all the time in the world to get there. Students part around him, giving him a wide berth without seeming to consciously decide to do so.
I watch until the shadows of the Spellwork building swallow him whole, like welcoming one of their own home.
What in the ever-loving fuck have I gotten myself into?