Page 27 of Conner's Luna

"Stop it, Conner," she scolds me, blocking my hand as I reach for her coffee, but she can't stop giggling.

My fingers are quicker than she can move, of course. I get my coffee, easily, and take a sip before smirking at her smugly. "I win, again."

Those gorgeous eyes roll, and she grabs the second cup of coffee on the table. I started bringing her one every Stats class last week. Then, she stopped buying her own, so now I bring two and typically let her drink both. I have a sports drink in my bag if I get thirsty. I'm not much of a coffee drinker at all and it's been a while since I chose beer as my breakfast of choice. Actually, now that I think about it, I haven't gone on an all-night binger since Bailey stumbled into my closet.

Professor Lane smiles at Kenna, even though she's an idiot who is bombing this project, and I lean closer to Bailey. "You know, statistically, everyone has at least one testicle."

Bailey snorts hard and chokes on the coffee that goes up her nose. Coughing and gasping, she sets the cup down. I watch Professor Lane looks up, a hard look on her face until she meets my gaze. I silently dare her to say anything to us about the noise. Her eyes drop back down, and she continues teaching as if there's not a cute human girl choke-laughing on her coffee in the back of the class.

"Conner, behave!" Bailey hisses as soon as she can speak again.

Smirking, I tug her new MacBook Pro towards me and make a few extra notes on her project page. It ruffles the good prof's fur to have me here in her class, ostensibly taking the course, when my only contribution is to help Bailey. Fail me, what do I care? I have my degree already and Uncle Alex thinks it hilarious that I'm failing Statistics.

"I like that," Bailey breathes. She brings the MacBook back in front of her and starts making rapid-paced changes.

I just watch her get lost in the numbers, grinning like a fool as she pushes her glasses back up with one finger as the other hand flies over the keyboard.

"Hey, Babe. It's time to go," I murmur in her ear as she keeps furiously typing and clicking away.

"Almost done," she mutters absently. I can see Bailey losing herself in her work. She'll need someone to pull her out of it every so often and make her have fun.

"C'mon," I wait for her to finish typing. A little frown crosses her face. "What are you thinking of?" I ask her.

"I don't like the last part of my assignment," she huffs. "I have to re-state the claim, but the data we extrapolated doesn't really make sense."

"There are two types of people in this world, Bails."

"No, Conner. Don't say it."

"Those who-"

"Please, stop!"

"-can extrapolate from incomplete data." I can barely hold back the laughter as her face turns a little red and she gives me a look like a steam kettle.

"I hate that joke," she fumes as we leave. "It's an incomplete thought. I absolutelyloathethat joke!" she repeats.

I can't hold in the laughter anymore. It hurts my stomach, so as we walk out of class I sling my arm over her shoulder and tug her close to me. With the other, I hold her backpack. She clutches her new MacBook tight to her chest, scowling straight ahead, but doesn't shrug off my arm.

"I win again," I boast before I feel an aching sense of awareness hit me. My wolf stands up, howling at the hole left in his spirit as we practically walk right into Lydia.

My mate's crystal-green eyes are filled with tears as she looks between Bailey and me.

My body goes stiff as my stomach lurches. I hear Bailey gasp in pain, the tiny sound filtering through the dense fog in my head.

I can't tear my eyes away from Lydia. Everything is else is meaningless background noise. I haven't been this close to my mate in months. Close enough to see the quiver of her lower lip, the sparkle in her eyes, the flush of her skin.

Close enough to smell another male seeped into her skin, into her pores, her very essence stinking of him. My stomach pitches and roils as I desperately hold back my feral wolf.

I hear my name being called out, a desperate twisting of words, but Lydia's lips don't move. A beat later they part, and she inhales, pain flickering in the depths of her tear-filled eyes. "Conner," she says. Her lips move again, asking me, "how are you?"

Maybethe ludicrous, asinine question would have sunk in slowly. This isn't the first time those twisted, pink lips have asked me that question. It's not the second or third or fourth time, either. I've lost count of how often Lydia has asked me that. Does she want me to break entirely? What other reason could there be in asking me 'how I'm doing?'

Maybeit would come slowly, it doesn't this time. It hits with a force of a wrecking ball as my arm falters, then falls as my wolf howls in awareness, jolting me out of my sense of fugue in a second. "Conner! Let go!" the desperate plea causes an instant reaction in the raging beast in my head. Snarling, spitting with rage, he turns toward the pain he hears in the voice he has come to depend on to heal his own hurt.

Bailey is sobbing, clutching her shoulder, pale and swaying. She gasps, bewildered at the pain she's in.

"Bailey," I reach for her, anguished as my brain catches up with my body. I hurt her. Her shoulder is dislocated. What the fuck is wrong with me?! Goddess, why?

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