Chapter 6
Lucian
How the hell did I get here?
I was supposed to spend the weekend prepping for a new semester, only my second at Mount Saint Anne University, but instead I used that time to demean myself by playing pet.
Cara took me outside with her for walks and even left for most of the afternoon yesterday, which is when I managed to sneak down to my apartment and get a few things prepared for my first class.
There was so much more to do, but I didn’t want to risk her coming home to an empty house.
Mostly because then the jig would be up and I wouldn’t get to finish investigating her, but my hound believes it’s something different.
According to him, this nephilim is our mate.
He told me his suspicions only yesterday, finally lifting the mental block he’d had on our bond.
I felt his conviction of it myself, and even though logically it explains everything—the reason we protected her in the first place and why we can’t seem to leave her side despite the mess it’s causing in our life—I still don’t really believe it.
How can our mate be a nephilim? It doesn’t make sense.
It’s bad enough that I’m stuck constantly breathing in her mixed human and angel blood, but that’s only temporary. Or so I tell myself.
If she’s truly my mate, then there’s nothing at all temporary about us.
Shaking my head, I glance at the time on the microwave and inwardly curse.
She’s running late, and if she’s late, that will make me super late.
She spent too much time arguing with my hound about its potential name this morning.
It was entirely one-sided, because in this form I can’t actually speak, but she’s becoming freakishly good at understanding my grunts and growls.
This morning’s name might have been the worst one yet. Spike. It doesn’t get any more I pick my dog names from an online article than that. How unoriginal. Does she see any damn spikes on me?
It looks like I’m going to have to figure out a way to inspire better ideas. Maybe I could whisper in her ear while she’s sleeping? It’s creepy, but it would be highly effective.
We’ll see what she suggests tomorrow before I actually consider that option. And who knows, maybe I’ll find inspiration somewhere today.
The moment she leaves for class, after offering me an ear scratch and a kiss to the top of my head that my hound ate up like his favorite meal, I beeline it to my apartment and have the fastest shower of my life.
When I’m out, I wrap my injured wrist before strapping my watch on and checking the time.
I still have an hour before I have to teach.
Mythological Creatures 101.
I usually teach the class twice a week, and there’s a surprising amount of interest in the course, enough that I had to break it down into two groups.
One meets on Mondays and Wednesdays, while the other meets on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
I also teach a higher-level course once a week for advanced students, but those numbers are much smaller.
I make it to campus with enough time to go over the syllabus and my prepped notes one more time before students show up.
It’s a rowdy bunch, but that doesn’t shock me.
Most of the students choose my course because they think it’ll be easy, and while I can admit it’s not calculus, I also have very high standards.
If you attend any of my teachings, you had best be prepared to give one hundred percent.
The class goes off without a hitch, despite my lack of planning. First classes are always pretty chill. Expectations, course syllabus, and a brief test to see how much the students know. This group seems like a good bunch.
When the last student leaves the room, I argue with my hound for fifteen minutes about how much better it would be if we just didn’t go back to her apartment.
Screw needing to figure out what she knows and fuck the alleged mate bond.
They aren’t as potent here in the human realm anyway, so we can just forget about her and move the hell on.
He doesn’t like the idea. In fact, he hates it. So much so that I know if I actually tried to stay away, he’d make things very, very difficult for me.
Because he’s a stubborn ass, I barely have time to drop my shit off at home and make it back to Cara’s apartment—letting myself in with the spare key I found in the cupboard this morning—before she comes home for lunch.
She lets me out to relieve myself, something I have to fake because I already emptied my bladder in a toilet like the man that I am, and then we eat lunch together.
She makes herself a sandwich and throws some leftover chicken in a bowl for me.
She doesn’t have long before she has to leave again, and on her way out, she drops to her knees and wraps her arms around me. “I didn’t think it would be so hard to leave you,” she whispers, causing my hound to nuzzle her neck with his snout.
In this form, with his thoughts front and center, I can see why he thinks we’re mated. The pull to stay near her is far more tempting than I’ve ever experienced before.
But we can’t. Not with what she is.
When she finally leaves, I don’t go back to campus. Instead, I go to my apartment and spend the next few hours checking in with my pack and prepping for tomorrow’s class. The syllabus is the same, at least, but as I glance through the list of students, I freeze.
Cara Montgomery.
Either there are two students with the same name, or I’m about to spend even more time with my supposed mate.