Page 122 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

"I don't mind," Cassius mutters, still engaged in his futile battle with breakfast. "I hate these eggs anyway."

His words snap me back to the present situation. The Duskwalker's ongoing war with proper nutrition needs addressing.

"You're not leaving this table until you eat those eggs," I declare, channeling centuries of royal authority into my voice.

His response is a pout that would look more at home on a sulking child than an ancient being of shadow and death.

"No."

"Why do you even hate eggs?" Mortimer's curiosity seems genuine, but before we can explore Cassius's apparent vendetta against breakfast foods, chaos erupts.

Grim appears — but not in his usual imposing form. Instead, a miniature version materializes, complete with a tiny scythe that he immediately points at the offensive eggs. Purple flames erupt from the plate, casting an otherworldly glow across our domestic scene.

Gwenivere's delighted squeal breaks through the stunned silence as she rushes to scoop up the diminutive death being.The sight of her cradling what amounts to a pocket-sized harbinger of death while cooing over his cuteness shouldn't be as endearing as it is.

"Put out the fire!" I call to Cassius, trying to focus on the immediate threat rather than how the shirt has ridden up dangerously high on Gwenivere's thighs.

"I can't," he admits, frustration evident. "It won't go out."

Mortimer's academic detachment remains intact even as purple flames spread across the table.

"We have approximately one minute before this gets out of control."

What follows is arguably the least dignified moment in our collective centuries of existence — three powerful beings scrambling for fire extinguishers while magical flames mock our efforts.

When Gwenivere offers to help, her amusement poorly concealed, we accept without hesitation. The subsequent dousing is probably deserved, though watching water cascade down her body as well proves incredibly distracting.

Once order is somewhat restored, she approaches with a towel. The proximity makes my skin hum with awareness, the mark on her chest pulsing in time with my heartbeat. When our eyes meet, the tension that's been building since she entered the kitchen threatens to overwhelm us both.

"Would you prefer answers now or later?" I ask, though explanations are the last thing on my mind.

Her teeth catch her lower lip — a gesture so unconsciously seductive it takes considerable willpower not to claim those lips immediately.

A quick glance confirms we're suddenly alone. My companions have made themselves scarce, displaying rare tactical wisdom.

"Wouldn't it be..." she hesitates, voice dropping to a whisper that sends shivers down my spine, "slutty of me to just want to kiss you? A Fae…gleaming in perfection and completely opposite from a hybrid like me?"

I can't help the laugh that escapes me. My fingers find her chin, tilting her face up until our eyes lock.

"If you’re slutty, I'll be Wicked Academy's ultimate player," I murmur, "if it means I get to kiss the hell out of you right now."

The mark on her chest pulses brighter, matching the surge of desire coursing through my veins. The golden glow casts an otherworldly light, illuminating the delicate curve of her collarbone and the fine sheen of perspiration on her skin.

It was maddening — how she pulled at me without trying, how her very existence seemed to shatter the carefully constructed walls I’d spent centuries building.

My magic churned beneath the surface, a volatile mix of desire and restraint, threatening to spiral out of control. Fae power was not meant to be suppressed, especially not in moments like these.

But I’m willing to hold it back,barely, for her sake.

The real question is whether I can hold it long enough to not lose complete control.

The desperation to claim her lips is driving me mad, and yet I try to think of a reason. To acknowledge the circumstance brewing between us.

“Can I?” I murmur the simple request, waiting for her to give me permission.

Give her the chance to say yes…or no.

"Y-Yes,” she says, almost breathlessly, neither of us able to fight this pull any longer.

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