Page 36 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

She made an attempt to rise, but her legs gave out beneath her almost instantly.

Anticipating it, I caught her before she could fall, my arms wrapping around her trembling form.

“You’re not going anywhere,” I said quietly, lifting her effortlessly into my arms. Her protests were incoherent, little more than mumbled words as she leaned heavily against my chest.

“I’ll have mercy on you today,” I murmured as I carried her toward the bed, setting her down gently. “But be prepared. I’m not someone you dare take lightly, let alone try to keep up with.”

A weak giggle escaped her, her eyes fluttering closed as she muttered.

“Challenge accepted.”

I shook my head, unable to stop the faint smile that tugged at the corners of my lips. But gods, if she didn’t make me feel alive for the first time in centuries.

Foolish, impossible little hybrid.

6

DRIPPING LUST OF COMPETITIVE IRONY

~DAMIEN~

The water is ice cold, its relentless streams cascading down my back in futile attempts to extinguish the heat coursing through me.

It had been my plan to let the chill numb me — to banish the fire clawing at my insides, burning and raging as Gwenivere’s moans pierced through the thin walls like haunting melodies.

But the cold does nothing.

If anything, it sharpens the edges of my need, leaving me raw, exposed, and maddeningly aware of her.

I’d been drawn to her even before the reveal.

As a “male,” there was something too captivating about the sharpness of his jawline, the subtleties of his features that softened in ways most didn’t. And then, after that insufferable display of dominance, I couldn’t stop replaying the fire in his eyes, the defiance that made my cock throb even as my instincts roared for control.

But this —this madness— was more than I could have predicted. Her cries and whimpers clawed their way under my skin, digging deep; deeper than any mortal sound ever had. Theyechoed through the cold silence of my chambers, each one a taunt, a reminder that she was inhisarms, being claimed byhim.

My hands clenched into fists, the force of my frustration cracking the tile beneath my feet.

Cassius.

Of all people, it was Cassius —the Duskwalker Prince, the embodiment of shadow and frost— who had taken her.

I’d told myself this was a test.

That this was all part of some elaborate ploy to evaluate her, to push her limits. Mortimer had spoken of the rarity of bonds between a Duskwalker and another, warning us of how they could ignite uncontrollable lust.

Lust so potent it could override centuries of restraint.

Perhaps this was merely that — a means for Cassius to tame the storm she’d unleashed upon us all.

But I knew better.

My instincts whispered truths I didn’t want to hear.

The bond mark.

Mortimer’s revelation had been like a blade to the gut. I’d seen it on her neck, faint but undeniable.

A Duskwalker’s bond mark, rare and ancient, a connection forged through magic so old it defied reason. Cassius, the unfeeling prince of shadows, had been pierced by it.

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