Page 76 of Do You Even Hex, Bro?
Nineteen
KILLIAN
The lecture drags on like a wounded animal.
Economics 305 is a class I'd normally find interesting enough. But today, all I can think about is Regina. I check my phone again, absently sketching snarling wolves and dragons in my notebook while Professor Hansen drones on about market fluctuations.
Then a sudden, sharp sensation pierces my chest.
Alarm bells ring in my blood. Something's wrong. I sit up straight, every muscle tightening. My wolf surges forward just beneath my skin.
I scan the classroom, trying to identify the threat, but it's not here. It's somewhere else.Withsomeone else.
Regina.
I don't question the certainty. The mate bond, incomplete as it is, still connects us on an instinctual level. Before I'm even aware of moving, I've shoved my notebook into my bag and am halfway to the door.
"Mr. Underwood?" Professor Hansen calls. "We still have fifteen minutes of?—"
"Family emergency," I throw over my shoulder, not breaking stride.
It's not a lie.
Reginaisfamily.
She's pack.
The campus blurs as I run, faster than I should among flighty weaker species, but I can't bring myself to care. The sensation in my chest tightens, an invisible tether pulling me toward home. Something fucking happened to Regina, and I wasn't there to protect her.
What a fucking joke. She's been with us less than twenty-four hours, still bonded to that psychopath witch, and I left her with only half the pack for protection.
When our house comes into view, I see Rowan's SUV pulling into the driveway. My heart nearly drills a hole through my chest when I spot Regina in the passenger seat, leaning against the window, alarmingly pale. Sean sits behind her, uncharacteristically serious.
I reach the car before Rowan's even killed the engine, yanking the passenger door open with enough force I almost tear the door off.
"What happened?" I demand, crouching to eye level with Regina. Her face is ghostly white beneath the glamour, which looks thin and unstable, like watercolor paint about to dissolve. The scent of her fear and exhaustion hits me hard, sharpening her deep, ethereal forest scent.
"I'm fine," she says, her voice too shaky and weak to be convincing. "Just, uh, got a little lightheaded at the park."
"She collapsed," Sean says from the backseat. His voice is strained. It must have been bad, then.
I growl low in my throat, my hands clenching into fists, elongating nails biting into my rough palms to keep from touching her without permission. “I knew I should have gone with you,” I mutter.
To my surprise, she laughs. It’s a soft, tired sound, but it’s genuine. "And what would you have done, exactly? Fought off my magical exhaustion with your big bad wolf alpha bark?”
"You don't know how effective that can be," I counter, relief mixing with my concern—no, my fuckingfear—as some color returns to her cheeks.
"I'm fine, really," she insists, attempting to stand. "Just overdid it a bit. The glamour’s taking more energy than I realized."
She wobbles dangerously.
Before she can protest, I slide one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her against my chest.
"This isn't necessary," she grumbles, but the fight has drained from her voice. She weighs next to nothing in my arms, frighteningly fragile for someone who holds so much power. It makes me want to cradle her closer, shield her from everything. Including herself.
"Indulge me," I murmur, carrying her toward the house. Her scent wraps around me—old magic and forest after rain—but beneath it lies the tang of exhaustion and a fading sweetness that must be Villeneuve's elixir.
I try not to think about her relying on that bastard's concoctions. Whatever they contain, they're a temporary solution at best, and a dependence at worst. She needs real sustenance, real connection.
