He looks different than I remember. Not as composed as usual. His suit is slightly rumpled and some of his hair’s falling across his forehead, which, for him, is basically the equivalent of showing up to class naked.
His dark eyes sweep the room, taking in the scene. Me sitting up on the stone table naked as the day I came into this world, my too-long nails digging bloody crescents into Rowan’s shoulders.
“Mr. Underwood.” His voice is exactly the same as always, giving absolutely nothing away. “You’re awake.”
Chapter
Eleven
ELIAS
Killian looksterrible.
Which makes sense, given the circumstances. His dark hair is matted with sweat, his ice-blue eyes are bloodshot, and there are deep shadows beneath them that speak to the nightmares I can only imagine he’s been having somehow. The stasis field should have prevented dreaming or any awareness of the passage of time entirely.
Clearly, I underestimated the strength of the virus.
Or perhaps I underestimatedhim.
Rowan is standing beside the table, his shoulders bleeding sluggishly where Killian’s grip left marks. The alpha’s nails have grown longer in stasis, more claw than human now. Another symptom of the transformation taking hold, slowly but surely.
“Mr. Miftah.” I don’t look away from Killian. “Please go inform the others that Mr. Underwood has rejoined us.”
The younger wolf hesitates. I sense his internal debate in the stiffness of his posture. Leave his pack alpha alone with the dragon, or follow orders.
“It’s fine,” Killian says. His voice is rough. “Go.”
Rowan goes.
The door closes behind him, and then it’s just me and the dying wolf.
Dying.
Yes. That’s the accurate term, even if no one wants to say it out loud. Even if I’m doing everything in my power to change the course of his fate, for her sake.
Killian swings his legs over the edge of the table, moving like a man twice his age. The wound on his shoulder pulses visibly beneath the scarred skin, a dark, rhythmic throb. Beneath it, the veins are dark beneath the bite, a few millimeters farther out than they were the last time I checked.
The curse is spreading.
“You should have let me die.”
The words are flat. Matter-of-fact. He’s not asking for sympathy or fishing for reassurance, he’s merely stating what he believes to be an objective truth.
I consider several responses.
Diplomatic ones. Outright deflection. Careful verbal maneuvering I’ve perfected over centuries of navigating courts and councils and the endless political machinations of beings who live too long and grow too bored.
Instead, I say, “Yes. I should have.”
His head snaps up. He clearly wasn’t expecting agreement.
“Then why the fuck didn’t you?”
I move to the shelving unit along the far wall, making a show of examining the jars and vials arranged there. Giving him space and giving myself a moment to formulate an answer that isn’t entirely a lie.
“Likely the same reason you’re still here,” I say, “whenthat’sthere.”
I nod toward the small table near the altar. A knife sits on its surface. Silver-bladed, ornate, sharp enough to do real damage.It’s been there since I brought him in. I never bothered to move it. There didn’t seem to be a point.
