Chapter Seventeen: How curious
Elion POV
Ahem.
I clear my throat loudly, the way one might do before addressing a misbehaving pet.
Both heads turn.
Arabella looks mildly annoyed—adorable, as usual. She rolls her eyes, the way she always does when I interrupt her peace. But there's a twitch of a smile on her lips. So I count that as a win.
Now… let me get a good look at the bastard the Moon Goddess had the audacity to tie to my—to Arabella.
The culprit turns, cautious, those too-blue eyes wary.
But I see it immediately.
His form—his true form.
...
Ah. Now this is interesting.
My anger?
Gone.
Replaced by a spark of delighted intrigue.
I smile wide. The most polite version of predatory glee.
"I came to pick you up," I say sweetly, slinking up behind her like a shadow with good hair.
"I didn't know you had company."
My teleportation rune is prepped in my palm, just in case Wolfie decides to go feral and tear out my throat.
He doesn't.
How very interesting.
Arabella glances up at me, unimpressed.
"Do you not have friends?"
"You wound me, beautiful," I reply, dramatically clutching my chest as I wrap one arm casually—okay, possessively—over her shoulders.
She doesn't shove me off. Victory.
We begin walking toward the exit. I practically purr with satisfaction.
Until she glances over her shoulder.
"Rafayel?" she calls sweetly. "You coming?"
The puppy looks stunned. Like she offered him a kingdom.
And then he nods, fast and awkward, and begins walking behind us.
Behind us.
Not beside.
Not ahead.
***
Rafayel POV
I can't believe it.
My wolf is… silent.
Still.
Watching.
Breathing slow and deep like he's calm for the first time in years.
I had a shot of wolfsbane tucked in my pocket just in case. Just in case I lost it. Just in case the fae said something, looked at her wrong, and I snapped. Wolves are territorial, dangerously so—especially around mates.
But… nothing.
Just quiet.
Like he's watching too, but content. Listening instead of growling. The bond pulsing warm instead of searing hot with rage.
I trail behind them, half-expecting the storm to come at any second.
But it doesn't.
Weird, I don't hate it though.
We're headed toward the cafeteria now. The halls are loud and busy, and normally this is when I pull my hood up and sink into the background. I'm good at blending into shadows. I prefer it. I need it most days.
But walking behind Arabella—her pink coat swaying and glinting like some enchanted armor—and Elion with his smug, princely gait and bright hair?
It's like we're walking under a spotlight.
Blasting. Blinding.
People turn and stare. Whispers echo off the walls.
I catch bits of it—"is that him?" "that's the wolf—" "the fae and the vampire too—" "what is she, collecting them?"
My jaw clenches, but I don't react. Neither does Arabella.
They don't seem to care.
She walks like she's on a fashion runway instead of down a cracked stone corridor, the corners of her mouth quirked like she knows something no one else does.
Elion walks like he's daring someone to say something.
And me?
I just try not to shrink.
I try to breathe through it.
And do the impossible—
Act like I belong here.
With them.
With her.