The look he gives me isn’t fear but something much colder.
A reminder.
You made a promise.
I hold his gaze for a long moment, then I incline my head. Just slightly enough to serve as an acknowledgment.
I remember.
Chapter
Twenty
REGINA
The sun is actually out for once, and the campus of Stormvale looks just like any other university, albeit a particularly picturesque one.
It feels wrong, somehow. Like the weather didn’t get the memo about everything going to shit.
But here I am, sprawled on a picnic blanket under the shade of a tree in Villeneuve’s back garden, pretending to read a book about something other than werewolves for once while three of my mates make absolute fools of themselves twenty feet away.
Sean catches the football with one hand and immediately spikes it into the ground like he just scored the winning touchdown at the Super Bowl.
“Did you see that?” he crows. “Did youseethat?”
“We saw it,” Micah says flatly. “We’re standing right here.”
“That was a one-handed catch, bro. Tellthatto my depth reception.”
“Perception,” Rowan corrects.
“Don’t diminish my accomplishments.”
Rowan retrieves the ball from where it’s rolled into a flower bed. “Your accomplishments are trampling Villeneuve’s roses.”
“They’ll grow back.”
“They’re like a billion years old.”
“Then they’ve had a good run.”
I snort and turn the page of my book. Haven’t absorbed a single word in the last hour. But the pretense gives me an excuse to sit here and watch them without being obvious about it.
They’re showing off. All three of them. Micah’s throws are getting progressively more elaborate—behind the back, between the legs, one memorable attempt that involved a somersault and nearly ended with him face-first in the garden pond. I’m pretty sure Villeneuve would have torched him for upsetting his koi.
Sean is catching everything with increasingly unnecessary acrobatics. Even Rowan, who usually plays it cool, has been putting some extra spin on his passes.
For me.
They’re showing off forme, these complete dorks.
But Killian isn’t playing.
He’s sitting next to me on the blanket, close enough that I feel his warmth. He’s been running hot lately. Another symptom I’m trying not to think about. His eyes track the football as it arcs through the air, but his body is tense. Like he’s ready to leap up at a second’s notice.
He hasn’t touched me in days. Not really. A brush of fingers here, a careful hand on my shoulder there. Always pulling back before it becomes anything more. Always putting space between us.
I hate it.
