"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 thefirsttime 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.
Notyet.
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-lovingfuckhave I gotten myself into?
