And yet somehow, neither of them wakes up.
Micah just grunts, curls into a ball on the expensive rug, and keeps snoring. Sean doesn’t even twitch.
Incredible.
I find a robe draped over the back of a nearby chair. Silk, dark green, and of course, exactly my size. I don’t want to think about how Villeneuve knew that. Or when he had time to arrange it. I just pull it on and tie the belt tight, grateful for something to cover me since my clothes are a mess, both from the battle and last night.
First things first, Killian.
The hallway outside is dim, lit only by the gray light filtering through tall windows. Early morning, I realize. We slept through the entire night.
I see something flicker at the edge of my vision. A shadow? I turn, but there’s nothing there except an empty corridor lined with closed doors.
“Margot?” I call warily.
No one answers, but I know better than to think that means she’s not there.
The room where they put Killian is two doors down, so I ease it open, holding my breath.
He’s still on the stone table in his wolf form. Still wrapped in that stasis field that makes him look like he’s sleeping peacefully, except for the unnatural stillness of his chest.
Rowan is slumped in a chair beside him, his head tilted back against the wall, mouth slightly open. Sound asleep. He looks exhausted even in rest, dark circles under his eyes, his usually composed features slack with fatigue.
I pull a blanket over Rowan, then cross the room over to Killian and press my palm against his fur. It’s warm. Not as warm as it should be, but warm. Through the bond, I feel that distant pulse again. It’s steady, which means he’s fighting.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. You’re going to be okay.”
He doesn’t respond, but I swear I feel a shift in the bond between us, like a faint acknowledgment.
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking again.
I pull my hand back and leave as quietly as I came. Rowan needs the sleep. They both do.
The garden is at the back of the house, through a set of French doors that open onto a stone patio. The morning air is damp and heavy with the scent of wet earth, and it’s easy to forget this place is still within the campus wards when it feels like another world.
Villeneuve is standing by an ancient oak tree at the center of the garden, a coffee cup in one hand, his attention fixed on the gnarled trunk like he’s thinking of cutting it down. He’s wearinganother one of those impeccable suits. Charcoal again, because apparently even dragons have a preferred color palette.
He doesn’t turn as I approach, but I know he knows I’m here.
“There’s coffee on the table,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward a wrought-iron setup near the patio. “Help yourself.”
I pour myself a cup just to have something to do with my hands. The coffee is better than the actual kiosks on campus. I take a long sip while I figure out what I want to say.
Or at least how to put “fuck you” into slightly more productive terms.
“Chilly morning,” he observes.
“How the fuck did you speak inside my head?”
So much for small talk.
Villeneuve turns to face me, one eyebrow raised. “Right to the point. I respect that.”
“What did you expect? That I’d find out and just move on like nothing happened?”
“No. Of course not.”
He looks even more exhausted than he did last night. Dark circles shadow his eyes even heavier than Rowan’s, and his skin seems paler than usual, like all the color has been leeched out of him.
