Chapter 20 – REGINA
REGINA
Killian was not joking about showing up to class as my service dog.
I come downstairs the next morning to find him standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over his massive chest, wearing the most absurd thing I've ever seen in my life.
It's a service dog vest. Bright red nylon with "EMOTIONAL SUPPORT ANIMAL" emblazoned across the chest on a black patch with white letters.
The thing is clearly designed for an actual dog.
A large one, sure, but nowhere near the size of a six-foot-seven alpha shifter built like a Greek god who accidentally wandered into a CrossFit gym and never saw reason to leave.
The straps strain against his shoulders. The velcro is clinging on for dear life. And his expression is completely, deadly serious.
I lose it.
The laugh that tears out of me is loud and ugly and completely undignified. I have to grab the banister to keep from falling over, tears streaming down my face as I wheeze like a broken accordion.
"This isn't funny," Killian says, which only makes me laugh harder.
"Where—" I gasp for air. "Where did you even get that?"
"Prime delivery." He adjusts one of the straps, which immediately pops loose again. "Rushed shipping."
"Killian, you can not accompany me to work as a service animal. Especially not like that."
"Why not? I'm very supportive. And I provide plenty of services."
"You're a person!"
"Not when I shift." He says this like it's a perfectly reasonable argument. "I spend half my life a wolf. Wolves are basically dogs. Dogs can be service animals. Ergo, I qualify."
"That's not how logic works."
"It's how my logic works."
Sean appears behind him, spatula in hand, grinning like Christmas came early. "Dude, I told you that vest was too small. Should've gotten the XXXXXL."
"They don't make XXXXXL service dog vests, Sean."
"Maybe that's a sign."
Killian growls at him, but I can tell he's not really angry. And when he looks back at me, I catch the glint of humor beneath the stern facade. He's being ridiculous on purpose. Trying to lighten the mood, ease my nerves before my first day.
It's working, damn him.
"I appreciate the commitment," I say, finally getting my breathing under control. "Truly. But I'm going to be fine. Villeneuve isn't going to eat me."
"You don't know that."
"Pretty sure if he wanted to eat me, he would've done it when I was staying at his house."
Then again, I didn't actually see him eat anything. Not that I'm about to fan the flames of their paranoia by admitting that.
Killian's jaw tightens at the reminder, but he doesn't argue. Instead, he reaches up and rips the vest off with one violent motion, the velcro shrieking in protest.
"Fine," he mutters. "But I'm keeping this. For emergencies."
"What kind of emergency requires you in a service dog vest?" I ask him.
"The kind we haven't encountered yet."
I shake my head, but I'm smiling as I follow the smell of bacon into the kitchen. Rowan's at the stove, flipping pancakes, while Sean arranges bacon on a plate in what appears to be an attempt at a smiley face. Hopefully not another dick.
"Morning, beautiful." Micah appears at my elbow with a steaming mug of coffee, prepared exactly how I like it. "Big day."
"You guys didn't have to do this." I take the mug gratefully, letting the warmth seep into my hands.
"Sure we did," Rowan argues. "It's your first day as Villeneuve's new TA."
"More like his thrall," Micah grumbles.
"No more fantasy comics for you," I say, pointing at him. "I still can't believe I'm doing this."
"You're going to crush it," Sean announces, abandoning his bacon art to throw an arm around my shoulders. "Our mate is a genius magical prodigy who's going to make Villeneuve look like an amateur."
"I highly doubt that."
"I don't." He presses a kiss to my temple. "You've got this, Storm."
Rowan slides a plate in front of me as I settle at the table. Pancakes, bacon, eggs—the works. My stomach growls.
"Eat," he orders. "You'll need your energy."
"That's what Villeneuve said yesterday." I pick up my fork, suddenly ravenous. "Right before he told me to show up at eight AM."
"Sadistic bastard," Killian mutters, finally joining us at the table after hopefully disposing of his ill-fated vest somewhere. He looks more tired than usual lately. I get the feeling he hasn't been sleeping well.
Maybe he's born with it.
Maybe it's Villeneuve.
"He's not wrong though." I take a bite of pancake, and gods, Rowan's cooking is unfairly good. "Starting immediately means I get a feel for things before I have to commit to grad school next semester. Better to know what I'm getting into now."
"Smart," Micah agrees, settling into the chair beside me. "Use the TA position as reconnaissance."
"Exactly." I wash down the pancakes with coffee. "Get a lay of the land. Figure out what Villeneuve's actually like to work with before I'm locked into a degree program."
"And figure out what the hell he really is," Sean adds.
"That would be a bonus."
The table goes quiet for a moment, all of us thinking about the mysterious professor who's now officially part of our lives.
He helped with the ritual. He agreed to sponsor the pack, even if it does come with the unspoken condition of me working for him.
He offered me an opportunity I never expected to have again.
And none of us trust him further than we could throw him.
"Okay." Killian sets down his fork with the air of someone about to deliver a military briefing. "We need to go over the emergency protocols."
I blink. "The what now?"
"Emergency protocols." He pulls out his phone, tapping at the screen. "In case something goes wrong while you're with him."
"We came up with a system," Sean adds, looking way too excited about this.
"A system."
"For communication. If Villeneuve won't let you use your phone."
I stare at him. "Why would Villeneuve not let me use my phone?"
"Because he's holding you hostage, obviously."
"He's not going to hold me hostage, Sean."
"You don't know that."
"He gave me a choice! I'm there voluntarily!"
"That's what all hostages think at first." Sean leans forward, his expression disturbingly serious. "But then the Stockholm Syndrome kicks in, and before you know it, you're defending your captor in Swiss and refusing rescue."
"One, they speak Swedish in Stockholm. Two, that's not how Stockholm Syndrome works. Three, that's utterly insane."
"Just hear us out," Micah says, placing a calming hand on my arm. "We're not saying anything bad is going to happen. We're just... preparing for contingencies."
"Paranoid contingencies."
"Prepared contingencies," Rowan corrects mildly.
It's not good when even he can't be reasoned with.
Killian clears his throat, reclaiming control of the conversation. "If you need help but can't call or text, there are signals you can give. Sean came up with them."
Oh, this should be good.
Sean straightens up, massive shoulders bunched like he's ready to leap out of his seat. "Okay, so. If you scratch behind your left ear, that means you're uncomfortable but not in immediate danger."
"My left ear."
"Specifically the left. Right ear means something completely different."
"What does the right ear mean?"
"You need snacks." He says this like it's obvious. "We'll send Micah with supplies."
I look at Micah. He shrugs. "I volunteered for emergency snack duty."
"Moving on," Killian interrupts. "If you tap your nose twice, that means Villeneuve is acting suspicious and you want backup in the area."
"We'll be nearby," Rowan adds. "Close enough to intervene but far enough to avoid detection."
"Like tactical support," Sean says. "Emotional support tactical support."
"And if I actually need help?" I ask, because apparently I'm entertaining this madness. "Real, genuine, emergency help?"
"Pull your ponytail loose," Killian says grimly. "We see that, we're coming through the walls."
"I might just want to wear my hair down."
"Don't. Not today."
I set down my coffee cup, looking around at the four of them. My ridiculous, overprotective, completely insane wolves. They're watching me with such earnest concern that I can't even be properly annoyed.
"You know these signals are absurd, right? He's not holding me hostage. I'm his teaching assistant. And if my ear itches, the last thing I need is you four bursting through walls like He-Man."
"Just humor us," Micah says gently. "Please? It'll make us feel better."
I sigh, feeling the weight of four sets of hopeful eyes on me. The bond pulses with their desperate need to protect me even when there's nothing to protect me from.
"Fine," I relent. "But if I actually need something, I'll text, and if I can't text, I'm pretty sure you'd feel it through the bond anyway."
I can tell they want to argue, but Killian just sighs as if I've told him they discontinued his favorite protein powder. "Fine. No secret signals."
The reasonableness doesn't last long.
I finish my breakfast in a whirlwind of last-minute advice, most of it contradictory.
Micah, who's apparently decided Villeneuve is some kind of elf or fae, suggests spilling salt to see what happens.
Killian just keeps growling suggestions about watching Villeneuve's hands at all times and which bones in the body are the easiest to break.
When I finally escape to the front door, all four of them follow me like an honor guard. It's equal parts endearing and suffocating.
"I'm just going to work," I remind them. "Across campus. For a few hours."
"We know," Killian says, but he pulls me into a kiss anyway, deep and possessive and tasting faintly of maple syrup.
Sean kisses me next, quick and playful. Then Rowan, soft and sweet. And finally Micah, who cups my face in his hands and looks at me like I'm the most precious thing he's ever seen.
"You're going to be amazing," he murmurs against my lips.
"Remember," Killian calls after me, "the nose can become a weapon with an well-timed upward palm thrust!"