Page 42 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

Gwenivere,

While the matter of your uninvited arrival must be addressed, your recovery takes priority. Rest. Heal. There are blood packs in the mini-fridge – I was unsure of your preference, so I procured a variety until we can properly register you with the blood bank.

-Cassius

"Blood bank?"I say aloud, my eyebrows rising. "But I thought..." I trail off, remembering the warnings about females being used as feeding vessels before sunrise.

The existence of a blood bank suggests a level of civilization and organization that contradicts the brutal image painted by those warnings. Then again, nothing about this place has aligned with the stories I'd heard.

I move to the mini-fridge tucked discreetly in the corner, opening it to find neat rows of blood packs arranged by type. A+, B-, O+, even the rare AB- – all are present and perfectly preserved. The organization speaks of careful planning,of consideration, I hadn't expected from someone supposedly incapable of emotion.

"You're just full of surprises, aren't you?" I murmur, thinking of the Duskwalker prince who seems to defy every preconception I'd had about his kind.

The fact that he'd thought to provide blood, to ensure I had options and wouldn't go hungry again...It speaks of a level of care that makes something warm flutter in my chest.

Don't read too much into it.

I have to warn myself or my silly heart will fall harder than a rock plunging off a cliff.

He's probably just being practical. Can't have a blood-starved hybrid running around the academy.

But as I select a pack of A+, my personal favorite, I can't help but wonder about all the other assumptions I might have gotten wrong about this place.

About him.

8

REFLECTIONS AND REVELATIONS

~GWENIVERE~

The mirror reflects back an image that somehow manages to be both myself and a stranger.

The uniform fits perfectly as if it had been crafted specifically for my measurements. Which, given the events of the past twenty-four hours, wouldn't be the strangest thing to have happened.

Speaking of strange...

My gaze drifts to the elegant makeup collection arranged on the counter. High-end brands I've only ever dreamed of owning sit before me like an offering. The eyeshadow palette contains a carefully curated selection of dark nudes and neutrals – colors that would complement any skin tone while maintaining a subtle, academic appropriateness.

"Did you actually go shopping yourself?" I mutter, imagining Cassius prowling through a high-end makeup store, shadows trailing behind him as he examines different products.

The mental image is both amusing and oddly endearing.

The liquid eyeliner is from a brand known for its staying power, the brow tint promises twenty-four-hour wear, and then... there's the lipstick.

I pick up the golden tube, its weight substantial in my hand.

YSL's legendary matte, non-transfer formula in the perfect shade of red. Not just any red –myred.

The exact shade I'd been wearing last night when...

Heat creeps into my cheeks as I remember his comments about testing its non-transfer claims.

"Well, you certainly paid attention," I say to my reflection, uncapping the lipstick. The scent of luxury fills my nostrils as I carefully apply it, the color gliding on like silk. "Though this feels suspiciously like boyfriend behavior for someone who's supposed to be an emotionless creature of shadow and death."

The thought catches me off guard.

Is that what this is? Some sort of courtship ritual I don't understand? Or is it simply practicality – ensuring his unexpected guest has what she needs to maintain appearances?

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