Rowan’s voice cuts through the garden before I can respond to that, laced with a growl of concern. I spin around to see him standing at the end of the path, still in yesterday’s clothes, his long hair disheveled from sleep. His eyes have that faint glow I’m starting to realize all shifters have when their beast is near to the surface, ready to take over at the slightest provocation.
“Is Killian alright?” I ask, already moving toward him.
“Everything’s fine.” He meets me halfway, his hand finding my arm like he needs to reassure himself I’m real. “Or at least, nothing’s changed, but I woke up and you were gone. I was worried.”
“I’m fine. I was just?—“
I turn to gesture to Villeneuve, hoping that two against one will make him slightly less cryptic and a lot more forthcoming, but?—
But he’s gone.
The garden is empty. The stone bench sits abandoned in the gray morning light. The only evidence he was ever here is a small pile of ash on the ground where he crushed that flower in his hand.
I stare at the spot where he stood, feeling the bond pulse faintly between us.
The questions I still have pile up in my throat, but there’s no one left to ask.
Chapter
Seven
ELIAS
“You might as well come out,” I say. “I know you’re there.”
The pen in my hand doesn’t pause its movement across the undergraduate’s thoroughly mediocre essay on pre-Roman blood rituals. Red ink bleeds into the margins. Another C-minus for Mr. Cox, who seems to believe that enthusiasm can substitute for research.
It cannot.
A beat of silence from the hallway. Then the door creaks open.
Micah’s face appears in the gap, glasses slightly askew, expression caught somewhere between sheepish and defiant. “How did you know? We masked our scents.”
“Scent maskers don’t work on dragons.” I set down the pen and lean back in my chair. “Besides, Mr. Brewer is literally hiding behind a fern. And not well.”
I point with the pen toward the corner of my office, where a truly massive specimen ofNephrolepis exaltatais doing its level best to conceal the giant wolf shifter. The fern is perhaps five feet tall. Sean Brewer is approximately six-foot-five.
The fronds rustle indignantly.
“I’m bulking, bro,” Sean says, peering out from behind the plant. His bandaged eye gives him a vaguely… piratical air. “Ferns add like ten pounds visually.”
“I told you that was a bad hiding place,” Micah mutters, pushing the door open fully and stepping inside. He moves like he’s entering a predator’s territory, which is accurate enough. “You can’t blame us for keeping an eye on you. Especially now that we know what you are.”
I organize the stack of essays into a neat pile. The motion is automatic, something to do with my hands while I consider how to handle this intrusion. “And here I rather thought knowing what I am would put an end to the surveillance.”
Sean abandons his pathetic attempt at concealment and ambles over to stand beside Micah. They make an interesting pair. The jock and the scholar, united in their suspicion of me.
How touching.
“What do you mean?” Sean asks.
“I am a dragon.” I fold my hands on the desk. “You are wolves. Wolves whose pack leader is presently in a comatose state, I might add. What exactly do you think you could do in a fight against me, even if Iwereinclined toward whatever malice you ascribe to me?”
The question falls on silence.
Micah’s throat bobs visibly as he swallows. Sean is suddenly very interested in the binding of a book on my shelf.
“We could, uh...” Micah trails off.
