Page 74 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

I pull back just enough to witness the revelation, to watch as my shadows strip away the final barriers between us, leaving her gloriously bare beneath my gaze.

The sight steals whatever breath remained in my lungs — silver hair spread across my pillow, skin like moonlight given form, curves that would inspire poetry if I possessed such talents.

Relief floods through me with unexpected force, nearly overwhelming in its intensity. This moment —her surrender, her forgiveness, her willingness to reconnect despite my failures— feels like salvation I never dared hope for.

The weight I've carried since the cafeteria incident, the crushing guilt of inaction when she needed protection, lightens with each passing second.

I hadn't realized how heavily her pain had pressed upon me, how the possibility of her hatred had become a shadow darker than any I command.

The thought of permanent fracture between us had haunted me more thoroughly than I'd allowed myself to acknowledge. Now, with her beneath me, eyes reflecting desire rather than disappointment, I feel something I'd thought lost to me centuries ago.

Hope…

Hope for connection beyond mere alliance.

Hope for understanding that transcends the careful distances I've maintained for so long.

Hope for a future where shadows need not always represent isolation and coldness.

"You're beautiful," I tell her, the simple truth emerging without the filters I typically employ. "More than I deserve."

Her fingers trace the line of my jaw, touch feather-light yet burning against my skin.

"Let me decide what you deserve," she responds, voice carrying stubborn determination that reminds me why I first called her Little Mouse — small yet fierce, determined beyond all reason.

I can't resist her invitation, lowering my mouth to hers once more in a kiss that carries both gratitude and hunger. My tendrils continue their exploration, wrapping around her wrists with gentle restraint as my lips begin a journey downward.

I trace the elegant column of her throat, pausing to lavish attention on the bond mark that pulses in time with her racing heart.

Each kiss draws new sounds from her — sighs and gasps and broken whispers that guide me to places that bring her greatest pleasure. I map her body with devoted attention, committing every response to memory, learning the unique language of her desire with the same focus I bring to shadow manipulation.

My Little Mouse, writhing beneath me as I cover her in kisses, each one a silent promise of protection and pleasure. The sight of her —abandoned to sensation, trusting me despite everything— sends fresh waves of emotion through my chest that have nothing to do with mere physical desire.

When I finally pull back to remove my own clothing, her gaze follows every movement with hooded intensity that makes my hands less steady than I'd prefer.

I unbutton my shirt with deliberate slowness, watching her watch me with growing anticipation. The garment falls away,revealing the markings that cover my torso — tattoos that most never see, as Duskwalkers rarely expose bare skin to others.

Her eyes widen slightly, taking in the intricate patterns that spread across my chest and arms. These aren't the markings she's glimpsed before during training or combat — those are mere surface decorations, statements of rank and lineage visible even through clothing. These deeper inscriptions remain hidden except in moments of greatest intimacy or magical working.

I move to my pants next, unbuttoning them with unhurried purpose before slipping them off completely.

I kick them from the edge of the bed with casual disregard, then deliberately stand beside the mattress, allowing her to take in my fully revealed form.

The markings covering my body respond to her attention, pulsing with subtle luminescence as magic flows through the intricate designs. Shadows rise from the tattooed lines, creating patterns of darkness that dance across my skin like living extensions of the ink itself.

"I knew you had tattoos from last time we fucked," she says, voice hushed with fascination, "but these seem different. Deeper somehow."

I nod, appreciating her perceptiveness.

"These are Nachtlied markings," I explain, using the ancient Duskwalker term. "They're created using the essence of Nachtlied flowers, blended into ink that's carved into our flesh. Each pattern connects us to different aspects of shadow strength and ability."

Her eyes track the movement of darkness across my skin, genuine curiosity evident beneath desire.

"Is that why your shadows can create those sounds? Why they seem almost independent sometimes?"

"Yes." I extend my hand, allowing a tendril to curl around my finger like a pet seeking affection. "Each markinggrants different abilities…some allow for sound, others for manifestation beyond my physical form. The most complex ones enable various levels of summoning and manipulation."

Her fascination is evident, gaze moving between my face and the markings with undisguised wonder.

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