Fallen University: Year Three

She looked like she was gearing up to yell at him when her gaze flitted over the rest of us. Her mouth just snapped shut, and her expression instantly changed into a polite, if distant, mask.

“Kingston. Dear. Good to see you. Would you introduce us to your friends?”

“To hell with his friends,” Kingston’s father growled. “Where have you been, boy? You think you can just take off for a year with no warning, no note, not even a phone call? Who the devil did you expect to take your place? Stocks in shambles—do you know how much time I spent smoothing things over with your investors? Do you have any idea what I’ve had to do to cover for you? The lies I’ve told?”

“Sebastian—”

“Quiet, Lenora, I’m not finished. You’ve cost this company millions, Kingston, not to mention your mother’s health! She’s been worried sick, sick!”

He continued to rant, and I stood as frozen as Kingston was, entirely unsure what to do. It’d been well over two years since we’d all been recruited to Fallen University, but Kingston had managed to stay in contact with his old life all throughout our first year of training.

But the year we’d spent in the underworld had been a different story.

I wasn’t sure what excuse he’d given his parents to explain why he could only communicate with them by phone, but his sudden unexplained radio silence had obviously left them hurt and terrified.

My heart clenched.

My life in Seattle had been enough of a mess that I hadn’t been all that sorry to leave it behind, but I knew it had crushed Hannah not to be allowed to have any contact with her family. Maybe ripping the band-aid off in one go was better though.

Kingston had peeled it off in increments, and I had a fleeting thought that maybe his attempt to stay in contact had only ended up hurting him and his parents worse in the long run.

Despite his mom’s attempt to put on a composed face, tears were running down her cheeks, and Sebastian’s face was getting redder and redder as he berated his son.

My stomach churned, the breakfast I’d just eaten settling like a lump of cement. God, this is so fucking uncomfortable.

“Dad, I’m sorry,” Kingston finally broke in. His green eyes looked glassy, the combination of sleep deprivation and high emotions making him look even more strung out than he had before.

I was about to step forward and offer him whatever support I could—to take his hand, or stand by his side, or just do something—when the hairs on the back of my neck rose.

That uncomfortable feeling I was picking up with my heightened empathy wasn’t just from the tension in the kitchen. It was something else.

At first, it was more of a feeling than a sound, an impression that the ambient silence was growing, that the empty spaces and shadows had come alive and were whispering to each other.

Jayce must’ve felt it too. His lips drew back slightly, and a low growl rumbled in his throat.

“Guys…” I murmured. “I think—”

The sound of shattering glass cut me off, and the ambient rustle suddenly broke into a loud noise that sounded almost like hyenas laughing. Someone screamed in another room.

“What the hell?”

Sebastian broke off mid-rant. He puffed up his chest and turned toward the kitchen door as if he was really going to march out there and take the intruders on by himself. But I could smell the sulfur. I knew what kinds of intruders he would face.

In a flash, all six of us rushed past him, shoving him backward into the kitchen before he could commit suicide by monster.

“Wha—what the hell are you doing?” he called after us, blustering, but there was no time to exp

lain any of this or apologize for knocking him over.

Kingston’s team met us in the hallway, and we screeched to a stop.

“Status report,” Kingston barked.

“Staff in the basement, fallen in the foyer,” Buford reported quickly, his voice steady although his eyes were wide.

My mate nodded. “Parents in the kitchen. Get them downstairs. We’ll take care of these guys.”

The other two men rushed to the kitchen, but Buford hesitated. “You might need backup—”