Page 130 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

He slams into me one last time, burying himselfdeep, and then he’s gone—coming inside me with a guttural groan, his grip bruising on my wrists as his body shakes with release.

For a moment, all that exists is the sound of our breathing — heavy, uneven, desperate.

Atticus is still pressed against me, stillinsideme, his breath warm against my throat. His lips brush my jaw, softer now, reverent.

“Mine,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You’vealwaysbeen mine.”

I don’t have the strength to argue.

And I’m not even sure Iwantto.

"You better never disintegrate in front of me like that again," Atticus murmurs against my hair, the casual phrasing belied by raw emotion vibrating beneath each word. "I'll lose my fucking mind."

The statement triggers sudden understanding — recognition of what he truly feared during the trial, what's been haunting him since witnessing what appeared to be my destruction.

The vision replayed in his mind without the opportunity to process or confront it, trauma deepened by lack of time to properly acknowledge what it meant to him.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, turning to capture his mouth in a kiss meant to convey everything words cannot adequately express.

His arms move and tighten around me, protective instinct is evident in every line of his body.

"Next time, warn me before you let a dragon shifter split your consciousness into multiple versions."

The dry humor draws unexpected laughter from me, tension easing between us despite the rapidly approaching end of our stolen moment.

"If we're going to die," I tell him, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw with wondering appreciation, "I guess I'll have to ensure we die together."

"Damn right," he agrees with fierce conviction, claiming my mouth once more in a kiss that carries equal parts promise and warning. When he finally pulls back, determination has replacedmomentary vulnerability. "Now let's go change history or die trying."

As we reluctantly separate, reclaiming discarded clothing with efficiency born of urgent necessity rather than embarrassment, the bond between us continues humming with renewed strength.

The timepiece above chimes a soft warning, indicating our temporal extension approaches final conclusion. If we remain beyond its protection, consequences Mortimer described await — decay and suffering from violated natural law rather than merely missed opportunity.

We move toward the door with renewed purpose, each step bringing us closer to whatever lies beyond this momentary sanctuary. The trials ahead remain daunting, obstacles seemingly designed to prevent exactly what we intend to accomplish.

"Ready?" Atticus asks hand extended toward mine with a question that encompasses far more than immediate departure.

I intertwine our fingers without hesitation, the bond mark pulsing with pleased recognition at renewed contact.

"Ready," I confirm, the simple word carrying the weight of promise rather than mere acknowledgment.

Together, we step through the doorway, leaving suspended time behind as we move toward the future neither of us can fully predict but both are determined to shape according to our collective will rather than the academy's predetermined design.

Let’s finish what we’ve started…this trajectory of fate.

Thunder's Wrath

~GWENIVERE~

The door clicks shut behind us, marking our return to the normal flow of time.

Atticus's hand fits perfectly in mine, his skin cooler than human temperature but radiating a different kind of warmth that travels through our bond. The connecting mark at my wrist pulses gently, still humming with satisfaction from our recent intimate encounter.

"We should find the others quickly," I say, trying to focus on the mission despite the lingering euphoria clouding my thoughts. "If Mortimer's calculations are correct, we have less than ten minutes to coordinate the aerial perspective with the throne activation."

Atticus nods, crimson eyes scanning the corridor with predatory assessment. "The central observatory should be just beyond?—"

A sharp screech of feedback cuts through the hallway, the sudden noise so jarring that we both instinctively crouch into defensive positions. The intercommunication system—something I didn't even realize existed in the Archive's ancientstructure—crackles with static before a voice emerges through the distortion.

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