I grunt. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He straightens, head popping out, brow raised, eyes scanning me like I’m a half-solved case file. His hair’s a mess, dark curls sticking up like he just rolled out of bed. Wyll grabs a beer and leans against the counter, as if he’s settling in for a long conversation.
“You’ve been dissecting that steak for thirty minutes, man. That’s not eating. That’s a crime.” He tosses his cowboy hat back on with a flick, inked arms folding across his chest. His eyes narrow on me, and I sigh, raking a hand through my hair.
“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”
“Not a chance in hell.” Wyll takes a swig. “So come on. Spill it. What’s got you all tense and broody? Full moon itch? Existential lycanthropic crisis? Somebody scuffed your favourite boots?”
I grunt and tell him.
Well, some of it. Enough to take the edge off, enough to make him think he’s in the loop, I leave out the parts that matter most. The kind that burrows under your skin and refuses to let go. Like the weight of her scent, still clinging to me. The look in her eyes, which I can’t unsee. And the question that won’t stop echoing in my head:
Is she okay?
Does she feel out of place right now?
Should I check on her?
…And why the hell do I care?
“Igetit,” Wyll says, eyes lighting up like he just solved one of the Alveron hidden riddles. “She’s the first girl who’s not all over you. That’s whyyou’reall overher.” Wyll grins like a smug bastard, one long canine catching the light. I want to knock that smile off his face, I swear to Kvirr, he’s doing this on purpose.
“She just looks… familiar, alright?”
Like I’ve seen her before. Not in passing, not in a crowd. But in adream, one that’s been digging at the back of my head ever since I laid eyes on her. Maybe it’s because she’s Theo’s daughter. He would mention his daughter whenever he was at the Institute for his next mundane mission assignment. That has to be it, just family resemblance triggering somedéjà vumoment.
Except… It’s not.
Because Avilyna doesn’t look likeanyone.And that feeling, that overwhelming, skin-deepknowing. It’s eating at me.
Wyll flops into a chair, straddling it backward. “Dude, what if she touched some ancient magical artifact or something, and now she’s got residual vibes clinging to her? Maybe your brain’s picking up on it, like a magical déjà vu glitch.”
I stare at him deadpan. “And where the hell is she finding ancient artifacts? She lived in theMundane World.”
He shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “They have museums, man. Basically, cursed-object warehouses with gift shops.”
I blink. “What the hell did you smoke? You know the odds of that being real are next to nothing, right? All cursed objects are monitored.”
Wyll shrugs again, unfazed. “I’m just saying, this hasenchantmentwritten all over it. Don’t worry, bro, we’ll figure it out.”
I jab a finger at him. “We’renot figuring out shit. She’s a mundane with the sight. Or maybe a witch, whatever. The only thing I know is that she’s got a strong affinity with Kvirr, that’s it. It’s probably just the full moon messing with my head.” Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.
Wyll throws up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, if you say so.”
But that damn grin says he doesn’t believe a word of it.
I’m not exactly thrilledabout facing the council, but meeting the guy who dragged me into this world? That’s a whole other level of annoying.
When your old man is General Randall Brackwell, the war hero who saved the kingdom while the angel warriors were off chasing Elgar’s damn portals, the man who made sure lycans finally got the respect they deserved, dodging the meeting isn’t really an option.
So here I am, heading to his office, gut clenched in anticipation, trying not to feel like I’m thirteen again. Any second now, one of his guards will announce my arrival, and I’ll have to face whatever’s waiting behind that door.
“Come in!” the General barks.
Great, here we go.
I square my shoulders, step inside like I own the place, because hell, if you show weakness here, it’ll eat you alive. Hand to my forehead, sharp salute, “Sir.”
