Page 58 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

After several heartbeats, her lips part slightly.

"Are you...wanting me to drink your blood?" Her voice carries notes of uncertainty, so different from her earlier bravado.

I nod, studying the pallor of her skin with growing concern.

"Your glamour dropped from Gabriel's form," I explain softly. "It means your magic is declining." My eyes meet hers, trying to convey the seriousness of our situation. "If we're participating in these trials, you need to be at peak performance. That can't happen without replenishing your blood levels."

She starts to protest, but I continue before she can form the words.

"If you drink from me, we can determine whether you need blood from a living host, or if your condition is specific to Cassius's essence." The logic is sound, even if the method is unconventional. "It's the most efficient way to test our theory."

Gwenivere's frown deepens as she processes my words. I can practically see the wheels turning in her mind, weighing options and considering consequences. It's fascinating how even her thought process is visible in the subtle shifts of her expression.

"But..." She gestures vaguely toward her neck, where that mysterious mark pulses faintly. "This showed up after I drank Cassius's blood. What if something similar happens with yours?"

The question draws exchanged glances from around the room. Mortimer's expression turns thoughtful, while Damien's scowl deepens. Cassius remains unreadable, though his shadows seem to writhe with increased agitation.

I shrug, keeping my tone casual despite the gravity of the situation.

"We can discuss the mark's significance on our way to the trials." My wrist remains steadily extended, an open invitation. "If another appears, it's not a significant concern to me."

Her eyes narrow as she studies my face, clearly trying to determine if I'm being truthful. Then her gaze drops back to my wrist, and I watch as she catches her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying it gently. The gesture seems unconscious, a tell that betrays her internal struggle with desire.

It shouldn't be as appealing as it is.

"Fine," she finally concedes, the word carrying equal parts resignation and determination. Then, more softly, "But you'll have to tell me to stop when you start feeling odd or dizzy or...whatever."

A faint blush colors her cheeks as she adds, "I don't really feed off...real people."

Damien shifts in his chair, his trademark smirk returning full force.

"Translation," he drawls, clearly enjoying her discomfort, "if you're getting a boner and feeling like a horny fucker, then you tell her to stop. That's what she means."

The blush on Gwenivere's cheeks deepens to a charming shade of crimson. The sight of it makes something in my chest tighten —an entirely inappropriate reaction given our current circumstances.

Mortimer clears his throat, ever the voice of reason.

"Not all vampire bites ignite sensual attraction and desire," he explains, his clinical tone a stark contrast to Damien's crude assessment. "Some can trigger memories or unique powers, depending on the exchange and the intensity of the two individuals' chemistry."

His pale eyes drift between Gwenivere and me, carrying an unspoken warning. Or perhaps it's curiosity. With Mortimer, it's often difficult to tell.

Damien turns to Cassius, his expression suddenly keen with interest.

"What did you experience when she bit you?" The question carries an edge of challenge, as if daring the Duskwalker prince to deny what we all suspect.

Cassius's response is immediate and flat.

"No comment."

The brevity of his answer only seems to fuel Damien's amusement. The vampire prince huffs out a laugh, settling deeper into his chair.

"He probably was a horny fucker," he mutters, though the words carry clearly in the quiet room.

The temperature drops several degrees as Cassius's shadows ripple ominously. The mark on Gwenivere's neck pulses once, sharp and clear, as if responding to the Duskwalker's agitation.

I find myself studying her reaction to this exchange; the way her eyes dart between Cassius and Damien, the slight parting of her lips as she processes the implications, the unconscious way her hand rises to touch the mark on her neck.

Every gesture adds another layer to the unraveling puzzle she presents.

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