Page 155 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

~GWENIVERE~

The shower turns on with a harsh hiss.

I flinch as the cold water hits my burning flesh, the shock of it almost unbearable against my flushed skin.

But I know it has to be this way – jumping straight into hot water would only trigger a panic attack. The trauma of being held under runs too deep for that.

Still, knowing doesn't make it easier to stand here, letting the cold stream assault my skin. My body feels like a puppet with cut strings, lacking the will or strength to move forward.

The day's exhaustion hits me in full force, and I'm honestly surprised I'm still standing. The hunger gnaws at me, both physical and blood-thirst combining with emotional drainage to leave me wondering if I'll simply fade away before finding an escape from this nightmare.

A touch on my flesh makes me flinch, but then that familiar deep voice whispers.

"It's just me, my Queen of Spades."

The nickname triggers a cascade of memories.

How he'd always called me his Queen as if I were some royal being who'd wandered into his path by divine chance. It's strange that he still uses it, yet the sound makes my heart swell with emotion I thought I'd buried years ago.

He stands behind me, both of us naked but nothing sexual in the contact. His only focus is the sponge in his hand, already slathered with my favorite soap – a complex blend of lavender, lilies, vanilla, jasmine, and white musk that creates something uniquely comforting.

The scent of bergamot adds a citrusy note that somehow makes it all work together, creating the perfect aromatic escape.

He scrubs methodically, thoroughly, until my skin turns red from the attention. But he knows if he doesn't do this, I will. If he didn't scrub me almost violently, I'd stay here until I drew blood, trying to wash away memories that live beneath the skin.

Even though the physical stench is gone, it lingers in my mind like a ghost.

The migraine still pounds behind my eyes, and my muscles ache with tension that's only now beginning to release. It isn't until he's washing the last of the conditioner from my hair that everything hits at once.

The sobs come without warning, powerful enough to make my whole body shake. I cry with the kind of abandon that only comes when you've held yourself together for too long, when the facade finally cracks and everything you've been suppressing comes rushing out.

His arms wrap around me, so different from what I remember.

Gone is the soft, comforting pudge of youth, replaced by lean muscle and skin decorated with runes and tattoos that never graced his flesh before. His embrace feels cooler now, a vampire's touch rather than a human's warmth, but the commitment it conveys only makes me cry harder.

He turns me in his arms, letting me sob against his chest while shielding me from the shower's steady stream. I let it all pour out – three days of torment, the memories of Darius resurfacing, the fresh betrayals layered over old wounds.

Atticus listens without speaking, offering comfort through touch alone. He knows it's the only thing that really reaches me through the pain, even though it's its own kind of torture.

A double-edged sword.

Touch brings back memories of violence, of hands that meant to harm, yet somehow his embrace triggers healing I didn't know I still needed.

The water continues to rain down, washing away tears as fast as they fall. His skin is cool beneath my cheek, marked with symbols of power that tell the story of how far he's come from that chubby boy everyone underestimated.

But his heart beats the same rhythm it always has – steady, unwavering, dedicated to my protection above all else.

I cry until my throat is raw, until the sobs turn to hiccups and even those fade to trembling silence. Through it all, his arms never loosen, his presence never wavers. He remains my anchor in the storm, just as he was that night he found me broken but not destroyed.

The water begins to warm slightly, the temperature rising gradually enough not to trigger panic. He's always known exactly what I need, even when I don't know myself.

Even when I'm lost in the darkness of my own making.

Water streams down his chest, following the paths of his tattoos like rivers through a mystical landscape. Each mark represents power gained, abilities earned through whatever transformation turned him from victim to avenger.

Yet his touch remains gentle, his embrace secure without being confining. He's learned the delicate balance required tocomfort someone whose trauma lives in their skin – how to hold without trapping, how to support without smothering.

The shower's steam rises around us like a protective cocoon, carrying the mixed scents of my soap into the air.

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