“Wait.” My stomach does a backflip. “We’re notkillinghim, right? Regina would be pissed.”
There are probably other reasons it’s a bad idea, but that’s the only one I really give a shit about.
Killian’s silence makes my spine itch. I always get itchy when we’re about to do something I’m pretty sure is illegal.
Allergies, I guess.
I know his family is basically the shifter mafia. Four generations of Underwoods running supernatural operations up and down the East Coast, connections that go deep enough that even the Council doesn’t fuck with them unless they have to. I’ve seen Killian “handle” situations that would make most people piss themselves.
He’s analpha’salpha.
The real deal.
But this feels like a lot. Even for him.
“Killian. Buddy. Pal. Fearless leader?—”
“No one is killing anyone.” He sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. It’s getting longer than he usually lets it, which is understandable, given the whole slowly-turning-into-a-mindless-rage-monster thing. “I just want to talk.”
“Talk.” I echo the word like I’m testing it for structural integrity. “You want totalkto the guy who secretly bonded himself to our mate.”
“Yes.”
“The dragon.”
“Yes.”
“The ancient, terrifying, fire-breathing dragon who could probably turn us both into crispy snacks if he felt like it.”
“That’s why I brought you.” Killian’s eyes meet mine. There’s that yellow flicker deep inside them. It’s been happening more often lately, but it’s kind of helpful I guess. Like a visible rage meter. “You’re physically the strongest in the pack. If I lose control, you can hold me back.”
I stop walking.
Then I flex. Both arms, full show.
“Damn right I am.” I kiss my right bicep, then my left. My homeboys. “These guns don’t quit.”
Killian rolls his eyes. “Come on,” he says. “He should be finishing up his morning lecture and Regina said she was manning study hall, so it’s our chance to grab him without her.”
“Right, so she doesn’t stop us from killing him.”
“No,” Killian growls. “Have you even been paying attention?”
“Oh, right. No killing. Just testing you, bro.”
We find Villeneuve coming out of Briar Hall’s main entrance. He’s got his briefcase in one hand and that permanently annoyed expression that makes him look like he’s grading everyone he sees.
We’re all failing, probably.
His dark eyes land on us and his expression changes a little. It’s not fear because I don’t think this guy even knows what fear is. And he doesn’t exactly hate us, no matter what Killian thinks.
More like…indigestion.
But for the brain.
“Mr. Underwood. Mr. Brewer.” His voice is dry as usual. “To what do I owe the pleasure of being ambushed outside my own building?”
“We need to talk,” Killian says, hands in his pockets. Probably to keep them off Villeneuve’s throat.
