It had to be Regina's magic, but it didn't feel like her. It didn't have the same intense, woodsy flavor.
But Regina is our priority now. Questions can wait.
"One more thing," Villeneuve pauses at the doorway, his dark eyes fixing on each of us in turn. "When she wakes, she may experience some... disorientation. The bond will take time to settle. Be patient."
And then he's gone, the front door closing behind him with a click that feels jarring in the silence of the room.
"I don't trust him," Killian mutters, echoing my thoughts.
"None of us do," I agree. "But right now, we need to take care of Regina."
We all look down at her, still cradled in Killian's arms. Even unconscious, she's beautiful, her features softened in rest. Her glamour is fading, as if her body is redirecting all non-essential magic to other things. The scars that map the left side of her face catch the candlelight, silver against her skin. She looks peaceful, at least. Not in pain.
"Let's get her upstairs," I suggest, already moving to gather our discarded clothes.
"Should we dress her?" Micah asks, hesitating with her green dress in his hands.
Sean shakes his head. "She'll be more comfortable in something soft. I'll grab one of my shirts."
"Just make sure it's not one of your gym shirts, that could be the final blow," I mutter.
"Ha fucking ha, Rowan."
The banter helps a little, even if my heart's not quite in it. Helps us feel like things are normal even if they're anything but.
We dress quickly, energy from the ritual still crackling over our skin. I can feel the bond now, a warm presence in the back of my mind, connecting me to the others more deeply than our pack bond ever did. And at the center of it all, Regina—a steady pulse of energy, dimmed in unconsciousness but undeniably there.
Killian carries her upstairs, his movements careful, as if she might shatter in his arms. We follow in silent procession, uncharacteristically solemn for a house of wolves. This moment feels sacred somehow, the culmination of everything we've been working toward since Sadie's spell first led us to Regina.
In Regina's bedroom, Sean has already pulled back the covers. Killian lays her down with a gentleness I've rarely seen from him, while Sean returns with one of his soft sleep shirts—the one with the faded university logo that's been washed a hundred times.
"I'll dress her," I offer, taking the shirt from Micah.
They nod and step back, giving me space. There's no jealousy in their expressions, no possessiveness. The bond is already changing us, smoothing the rough edges of our alpha tendencies, making us more cohesive.
I slide the shirt over Regina's head, guiding her limp arms through the sleeves with care. It swallows her small frame, falling to mid-thigh. I pull the covers up to her chin, tucking them around her like a cocoon.
"I'll take first watch," I say, settling into the armchair near her bed.
"I'm staying too," Killian says immediately.
"Same," Sean and Micah echo in unison.
I should have expected this. None of us want to be separated from her right now, not when the bond is so new and fragile. Not when she's vulnerable.
"We should at least take shifts on staying awake," I suggest, ever the voice of reason. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, the exhaustion from pouring our energy into Regina and the new bond is setting in. "So someone's always alert."
"Fine," Killian agrees reluctantly. "But I'm not leaving this room."
"None of us are," Micah adds.
And just like that, we're building another nest. Sean drags in blankets and pillows from the hall closet, while Micah pushes the armchair closer to the bed. Killian simply stretches out beside Regina on top of the covers, one protective arm draped over her waist. I settle on her other side, sitting with my back against the headboard, close enough to feel her warmth but careful not to crowd her.
And Sean is curled up at her feet like the overgrown puppy he acts like most of the time. At least he's practically a human furnace.
We fall into a strange, watchful silence. The room is dark except for the small lamp on the nightstand. Outside, the night is quiet—no howling wind, no distant thunder, just stillness.
It feels almost anticlimactic somehow, as if the world should acknowledge the huge thing that just happened.
