Page 71 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

Are they filled with shadow and duty, with the weight of Duskwalker legacy and princely obligations? Or does he dream of simpler things — sunlight and color that his people typically shun but that I've caught him observing with quiet fascination when he thinks no one notices?

My hand stills against his cheek as another question surfaces.

Why is he here?

The last thing I remember is watching his shadow tendrils painting while he slept by the window. I'd settled on his bed, intending only to rest briefly while enjoying the unexpected artistry of his unconscious creation.

Obviously, I'd fallen asleep — but that doesn't explain how we ended up entangled like lovers.

Did he try to leave only to find me somehow preventing his departure? Did he choose to stay rather than disturb my rest?

The possibilities create a complicated tangle of emotions in my chest. Whatever his reasons, the resulting intimacy feels like something precious and fragile — a moment of connection untainted by the tensions that have strained our bond since the cafeteria incident.

Instead of pulling away as prudence might dictate, I allow myself to relax further against him.

The steady rhythm of his breathing is hypnotic, lulling me into a state of contentment that feels almost foreign after so many days of constant vigilance and stress. The mark at my neck —his mark— pulses gently, responding to our proximity with quiet satisfaction.

The bond between us is a complicated reality I can neither deny nor fully embrace.

It formed under circumstances neither of us fully controlled, yet its existence is undeniable, its pull insistent even when my conscious mind resists. Here, wrapped in the peaceful cocoon of early morning intimacy, I can acknowledge what I typically push aside: regardless of how it formed, this connection between us means something.

He means something.

Despite his failure to intervene during my public humiliation, despite the hurt and betrayal that still lingers from that incident, I can't dismiss what came before.

Cassius was the first of them to truly see me, to offer blood and protection when I needed it most. He was the first to form this binding magic with me, accepting the risk and implications of such a connection without hesitation.

The memory of that night —of shadows cradling me with unexpected gentleness, of his blood offering life and strength when mine failed— sends a different kind of heat through me.

More pointed than embarrassment, more complex than simple desire, it carries notes of gratitude and need that transcend physical attraction.

His scent surrounds me, intensifying the memory rather than dispersing it. Cedar and night air, shadow and strength, the metallic tang of power carefully controlled. I breathe it in, letting it fill my lungs and imprint itself on my memory.

A slight change in his breathing alerts me that he's no longer lost in dreams.

My gaze lifts just as cool fingers touch my cheek, feather-light against my skin. Our eyes meet, his silver depths half-veiled by still-heavy lids, mine undoubtedly wide with surprise at being caught in such intimate observation.

The moment stretches between us, seconds extending into what feels like minutes as something unspoken yet profoundlysignificant passes through our locked gaze. He makes no move to pull away or to push me from him.

Instead, his eyes search mine with quiet intensity, seeking something I'm not sure I know how to give.

What I see in his gaze steals the breath from my lungs.

Beneath the typical silver coolness lies vulnerability I've never witnessed in him before — uncertainty, need, and something deeper that makes my heart stutter in my chest. He's looking at me as if seeking permission, as if this moment balanced on the edge of a blade might lead to either redemption or further fracture.

I'm not sure what my own eyes reveal, but I know what I'm seeking in return — a resolution, a way forward that acknowledges the hurt without letting it poison what exists between us.

The bond may have formed through circumstances beyond our control, but what we do with it now belongs solely to us.

His thumb traces a delicate path along my cheekbone, the touch so gentle it makes my chest ache. How can the same hands that command shadows with lethal precision deliver a caress so carefully calibrated it feels like worship?

"Cassius," I whisper, not entirely sure what I intend to follow the sound of his name.

Apology? Accusation? Acknowledgment of this fragile moment we've stumbled into?

His fingers drift lower, thumb trailing along the curve of my bottom lip in a touch so light it might be imagined if not for the spark of sensation it leaves in its wake.

I feel the slight tremor in his hand, see the conflict in his eyes — desire warring with restraint, need battling with the fear of causing further harm.

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