Page 50 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

He remains completely unchanged.

"How the hell aren't you affected?" I demand, my voice carrying that higher pitch I still haven't adjusted to. The unfairness of it burns—why should he alone remain stable while the rest of us navigate these impossible transformations?

Mortimer glances at Cassius, something like an apology crossing his scholarly features.

"Sorry about that," he murmurs before snapping his fingers. The magic ripples again, and Cassius returns to his male form with enviable ease.

"Why wasn't I changed back to Nikolai?" I ask, lifting my hands in exasperation. The gesture feels wrong—too fluid, too graceful in ways my male form never moved.

Each reminder of this transformation sends fresh waves of uncertainty through me.

Mortimer shrugs, though his eyes carry that analytical gleam that usually precedes uncomfortable revelations.

"If my spell…which is centuries old, mind you…didn't work on you but affected Cassius, it proves this transformation is Wicked Academy's doing."

"Similar to when we first met Gwenivere in male form," Cassius observes, his shadows coiling thoughtfully. The comparison makes my stomach clench — Gabriel's glamour was intentional, a means to an end.

Or maybe it wasn’t and she’d been telling the truth?

This feels more like the academy rewriting my very essence.

Mortimer nods before turning to Atticus.

"Take her to bed," he encourages, gesturing toward Gwenivere's unconscious form.

The vampire moves with predatory grace, lifting her as if she weighs nothing.

Something in my chest constricts watching him carry her into one of the master bedrooms—the intimacy of the gesture, the obvious comfort between them, sets off waves of emotions I'm still learning to process in this form.

By the time we follow them into the room, Atticus has already changed her clothes and apparently cleaned her up—her silver white hair lies across the pillow in nearly-dry waves, skin free of the day's ordeals. The efficiency of it all feels like another slight, another way he's proving his connection to her runs deeper than we realized.

"Did you just shower and change her in the time it took us to walk down a hallway?" I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice. The idea of him handling her so intimately, even with practical intentions, makes something hot and uncomfortable curl in my stomach.

I won’t dare admit the off chance I’m jealous…because I’m not.

I’m confident that I’m the better option, despite this road block.

Am I even an option when she doesn’t want to be near me…then again, this is my fault. I haven’t properly apologized yet either. I need to…but…fuck.

I don’t want to do it in this form.

Then again, I may not have a damn choice in the matter.

Atticus shrugs, the gesture carrying centuries of casual confidence.

"What would knowing that do for you?" he asks, crimson eyes meeting mine with clear challenge.

"You piece of shit," I hiss, golden aura flaring with newfound volatility. These female emotions feel sharper somehow, harder to control—or maybe that's just another convenient excuse for feelings I've never learned to properly process.

His lips curve into that infuriating smirk.

"I'm not threatened by you," he states simply, "whether male or female, to be blunt."

The casual dismissal makes me want to show him exactly how threatening I can be, regardless of form.

I start forward, magic gathering with intent, but Cassius's shadowy companion suddenly manifests between us. The being's hollow eyes somehow manage to convey stern warning despite their emptiness.

"Why don't we talk outside?" Cassius suggests, his tone making it less question and more command. "We have a lot to discuss."

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