Page 25 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

Sweet merciful darkness.

His jawline could cut glass – all sharp angles and perfect planes that somehow manage to look both aristocratic and dangerous.

Black hair falls in artful waves, just long enough to brush his collar, with hints of midnight blue when the light catches it just right. His features have a classical beauty to them like a statue of a fallen angel carved by an artist who understood that true beauty requires an edge of danger.

But it's his eyes that capture me completely.

They're the color of arctic ice – pale, almost silvery blue, with rings of darker steel around the pupils. Right now those extraordinary eyes are making a deliberate journey from my bare feet up my legs, lingering at the hem of the borrowed shirt, before continuing their slow ascent to my face.

The hunger in his gaze is unmistakable, and he makes no attempt to hide it.

This isn't the frenzied bloodlust I witnessed in Damien. This is something altogether different – slower, more controlled, but somehow even more dangerous.

It's the kind of look that makes me acutely aware of every inch of exposed skin. That makes me wonder what it would feel like to have those eyes on me in a very different context. That makes heat pool in places it absolutely shouldn't when I'm alone with a potentially hostile supernatural prince.

His lips quirk slightly as if he can read my thoughts on my face. Given what I know about Duskwalkers, he probably can.

I try to gather my dignity, which is challenging when I'm wearing nothing but a t-shirt that barely preserves my modesty.

"Do you often watch girls while they sleep?"

"Only the ones who break into my academy, survive drinking my blood, and bear impossible marks on their skin." His voice is like smoke and shadow given sound –deep, rich, with an underlying rasp that sends shivers down my spine.

He pushes off from the wall with fluid grace, and I have to force myself not to step back. Every movement he makes is precisely controlled, yet there's something wild lurking beneath that aristocratic exterior.

Something that calls to the darker parts of my own nature.

The sunlight shifts, illuminating more of his face, and I notice details I missed before.

The slight hollow beneath his cheekbones speaks of otherworldly beauty rather than gauntness. The way his current expression –caught somewhere between hidden amusement and hunger– softens the severe lines of his face without diminishing their impact.

He's dressed all in black, the fabrics clearly expensive but chosen for function over flash. The outfit emphasizes his height and the lean strength of his build. He moves like someone whoknows exactly how lethal they are and doesn't feel the need to prove it.

"You're staring," he observes, and there's definitely amusement in his voice now.

"So are you," I counter, lifting my chin defiantly.

His eyes darken slightly, the pale blue overtaken by expanding pupils.

"Indeed."

He makes no attempt to deny it or apologize.

"Though I think my reasons might be more complex than simple appreciation."

The way he says 'appreciation' makes my skin tingle.

There's heat in his voice, yes, but also curiosity.

Analysis.

As if I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve while simultaneously wanting to take it apart piece by piece.

The air between us crackles with untamed energy, like the moment before lightning strikes. Each breath we share seems to intensify the magnetic pull drawing us closer together.

My heart pounds against my ribs, its rhythm matching the pulse of magic that dances across my skin.

I try to fight it – this inexplicable attraction to someone who should terrify me. My gaze drops to his lips of its own accord, lingering there before I force it back up to meet his eyes.

---