Page 43 of Do You Even Hex, Bro?
Villeneuve remains silent, letting me continue at my own pace.
"I felt sorry for it. Thought it was just an animal in pain. I tried to free it. It seemed so weak, nearly on the verge of death. Docile, even." A humorless laugh escapes me. "Stupid. So fucking stupid."
"Compassionate," Villeneuve corrects gently. "Not stupid."
“Yeah, well, ‘compassion’ nearly killed me,” I mutter, my scar aching at the memory of claws tearing through flesh. I reach up and press my fingers against the ridges to soothe the throbbing pain. "The second those chains came off, it turned on me. Would have finished me off—or worse, bitten me and turned me—if Kyle hadn't heard me screaming and intervened."
"What became of the werewolf?" Villeneuve asks, his voice almost suspiciously neutral, given the controversial nature of the topic. Just admitting Kyle's coven had a werewolf chained up in the basement rather than reporting it immediately to the Council for extermination is a huge risk. One I could be implicated in. But I'd rather the truth come out now, when I have some control over it, rather than waiting for Kyle to twist things. I'm sure he's already coming up with a way to make everything my fault now that I'm no longer of use to him.
“It escaped,” I admit quietly. “After that, I don't know. I spent weeks recovering.”
"Wounds from a werewolf's claws are nearly as venomous as a bite, though not capable of transmitting the curse," he muses. "You're lucky to be alive."
Lucky. Yeah. It didn't feel that way for a long time. Still doesn’t, sometimes.
"The coven healed me as best they could, but magical wounds from werewolves never heal completely. The scars remained." I drop my hand to my lap. "Kyle taught me the glamour spell so I wouldn't have to see them every day. So no one would stare."
"Yes, I'm certain he did that out of the goodness of his heart," Villeneuve says, his voice dripping with sarcasm and more bitterness than I can make sense of. His eyebrows lift. "You're telling me they didn't take you to a hospital?"
I hesitate. "No… they didn't want to risk anyone finding out, I guess."
Unmistakable anger—no, rage—flashes in his eyes, but it's gone before I can fully process why this stranger would feel so strongly on my behalf. I tell myself it's just because of his work with the Council, but I'm not completely sure.
"So they risked your life," he says, his voice tight yet controlled. "The greatest gifts are truly wasted on the pathetic and undeserving. The universe has a twisted sense of amusement that way."
I'm not sure how to respond to that at all.
"What exactly are you?" I ask abruptly, changing the subject. “You're clearly not human, and you seem almost like a vampire,”I say, waving a hand at all the decor that makes his home look more like a museum. “But you’re not. You would have reacted differently to…” I gesture vaguely at my face.
Shallow fuckers, all of them.
A smile plays at his lips. "What do youthinkI am, Regina?"
I hesitate. “I’m not sure.” I study him more carefully. “You're powerful. Ancient, maybe. You command magic I've never felt before. But you don't fit any category I’m familiar with.”
"Yes, vampires are shallow, flighty creatures," he says with a sigh, ignoring the rest of my assessment. "Their aesthetic neuroses override their common sense." He rises smoothly from his chair. "You should rest for the night. Let the elixir and some sleep replenish your strength. We can discuss your options in the morning."
I stand too, reluctant to leave the warmth of the fire but eager for a real bed. "Why are you helping me? I’m not a student. And I was trespassing too."
"It's my duty to assist such a rare creature," he replies smoothly. "Both as a representative of the Council and as a gentleman. Besides, your situation has proven most... intriguing."
Before I can press further, a woman appears in the doorway. She looks human at first glance—middle-aged, silver-streaked hair in a neat bun, wearing a simple black dress. But something about her movement, her stillness, feels wrong. Not human. Not even close.
"Margot will show you to your room," Villeneuve says. "If you need anything, simply ask."
Margot bows slightly. "This way, miss."
I follow her through more book-lined hallways, up a sweeping staircase, and down a corridor decorated with paintings that seem to shift slightly when viewed from the corner of my eye. Not creepy at all. We pass several closed doors before she stops at one near the end of the hall.
"Your accommodations," she announces, opening the door.
The bedroom beyond belongs in a freaking period drama. There’s a massive four-poster bed with velvet curtains, antique furniture gleaming with fresh polish, Persian rugs on hardwood floors. Somehow, there isn’t a speck of dust in here. A fire already burns in another stone fireplace, and fresh flowers sit on a writing desk near the window. I’d be slightly menaced if it were a bouquet of roses, but luckily, they’re wildflowers.
I suddenly wonder if Villeneuve really is a vampire. This room certainly fits the aesthetic. The fact he isn’t puking when he looks at me still suggests otherwise.
"The bathroom is through there," Margot indicates a door to the left, glancing at the forest debris on my clothes. "Clean clothing has been provided. Is there anything else you require?"
"No, thank you," I manage, still taking in the opulence.
