I can sense his intentions through the bond now that I’m aware of it. The thread connecting us isn’t aggressive or possessive. It’s almost... protective. Watchful.
And there’s more sadness there than I could have possibly imagined.
“You were cloaking it somehow,” I say slowly. “Weren’t you? The bond?”
He nods. “I fully intended on keeping it to myself for as long as possible. Forever, if all went to plan.”
That hurts for reasons I don’t fully understand.
“And what was yourplan?” I ask, and I can hear the bitterness in my own voice.
He studies me for a moment, his gaze searching. When he speaks again, his tone is thoughtful.
“Did you know there is only one creature on this planet that has ever managed to fell a dragon, Regina? Besides our own kind, of course.”
The sudden change in topic throws me. “And which creature is that?”
“A wolf.” He stands, moving toward a cluster of exotic flowers I don’t recognize. “A pack, more specifically. It’s only happened once in recorded history, but a pack of wolves once managed to fell a dragon in defense of their beloved mate. A witch, curiously enough.” He touches one of the strange blooms, its petals iridescent in the gray light. “Or so the legend goes.”
“What are you talking about? What does a legend have to do with any of this?”
He doesn’t answer directly. Instead, he continues walking, and I follow him, drawn by the pull of the bond and my own desperate need for answers.
“Dragons are ancient beings,” he says. “We love nothing more than the treasure we’ve hoarded. Sometimes entire kingdoms. We have no natural predators, other than our own greed and territoriality. But in our constant lust for power, we managed to wipe each other out to the very point of extinction.”
He stops to pick a flower I’ve never seen before. An exotic bloom with deep purple petals and a center that seems to glow faintly. He lets it rest tenderly in his palm for a moment, contemplating its beauty before crushing it in his fist.
It turns to ash in his grip.
“Iam that point,” he says quietly.
I stare at him, realizingthisis the real Villeneuve. The man behind the mask of the confident, mysterious professor. And all of a sudden, it makes sense. The isolation. The shroud of secrecy around everything he is and does.
“You’re the last one?”
“In a sense.” He lets the ash sift through his fingers. “The first time you asked me what I was, what I told you was not a lie, even if it wasn’t the full truth. I am a hybrid, of sorts. My mother was Fae. Hence the affinity for magic.”
“Fae?” I stare at him. “But how... how did a Fae become a dragon’s mate?”
His eyes are completely dead now, not a speck of light to be found in them. “Not willingly.”
All the air leaves my chest.
“She killed herself not long after my birth,” he continues, his voice flat. “I suppose she couldn’t bear the weight of knowing she’d had any part in continuing the species that had nearly hunted her own to the brink of extinction. Although they usually leave that part out of the textbooks, don’t they? The Fae-Draconic Wars. Too ugly.”
“You were a child.” The words come out before I can stop them. “Whatever horrible things your father did, you can’t blame yourself for that. For just existing.”
His laugh is low and bitter. “That’s a very human way of looking at it.”
He hates himself. The realization hits me with harsh and sudden clarity. He absolutely fuckingloatheshimself. It’s as plain as the bond between us, now that I know to look for it. All that distance, all that professionalism, it’s nothing more than armor. Nothing more than protection, even if I’m not sure what could possibly threaten him.
“Earlier,” I say slowly, “you said you did what you did, weaving yourself into the bond, to protect me. From what?”
He turns to look at me, and for just a moment, the mask slips completely.
“Isn’t it obvious?” His voice is barely above a whisper. “From me.”
“Regina!”
