Page 75 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

"It's beautiful," she says with unexpected sincerity. "Like living art."

The simple appreciation in her voice touches something deep within me.

Most find Duskwalker markings disturbing, evidence of our connection to realms of shadow and darkness. Her ability to see beauty where others perceive only threat reminds me why this bond between us feels so different from any connection I've experienced before.

I allow a genuine smirk to curve my lips, enjoying the way her breath catches at the expression.

"What does my Little Mouse want?" I ask, deliberately using the endearment that seems to affect her so profoundly. "Slow or rough?"

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, the unconscious gesture sending heat coursing through my veins.

"Rough is always my first choice," she admits with refreshing honesty, "but... maybe for this sunrise, I want nice and slow." Her gaze softens, vulnerability showing through desire. "Because I don't want it to end. Don't want to return to reality just yet."

The admission makes something in my chest tighten, understanding perfectly what she means.

Outside this room awaits Year Two trials, the quest for her sister's chalice, the complications of multiple bonds, and whatever hidden agendas surround us. Here, in this moment, exists only connection — simple yet profound in its purity.

I allow myself a genuine smile, one uncalculated and raw, responding to her honesty with my own.

Her eyes widen at the sight, a soft gasp escaping her parted lips.

"Don't smile like that," she protests weakly, "or I'll probably get pregnant or something equally impossible."

The unexpected humor makes me chuckle, the sound rusty from disuse.

"That would be...interesting," I acknowledge, moving back toward the bed with predatory grace. "Though you're protected, aren't you?"

"I am," she confirms, watching my approach with visible anticipation. "But the idea is intriguing, isn't it?"

I crawl across the mattress until I hover above her once more, my body creating a cage of protection around her smaller form.

"Very," I agree, genuinely contemplating the possibility. "A shifter blended of such unique traits. Duskwalker, witch, vampire hybrid. The power alone would be extraordinary."

Her smile transforms her face, softening it into an expression of such sweetness it makes my chest ache.

"Technically pureblood vampire too, apparently, from Atticus' interference," she adds. "Essentially a badass, if you ask me." Her expression turns thoughtful. "But I see your point."

Her hand rises to trace one of the markings on my chest, the touch sending more sparks of sensation cascading through my system.

"I wouldn't want that unless I could create an environment welcoming for all creatures," she says softly. "Duskwalkers, purebloods, Fae of all kinds. Where any type of hybrid would be praised and embraced."

The vision she describes catches me off guard with its beauty and impossible optimism.

"Where there wouldn't be such divided unity," she continues, voice barely above a whisper. "Where we could all just be paranormals striving to be elites in our own right without hurting each other."

My smile returns, genuinely moved by her vision despite centuries of cynicism regarding inter-species relations.

"A beautiful dream," I acknowledge, meaning it despite its improbability.

Our gazes lock, and something passes between us — understanding deeper than words, connection beyond mere physical attraction. This is why the bond formed between us despite all odds.

This is why a Duskwalker prince found himself drawn to a hybrid witch who defied every convention.

Why a heart long frozen has begun to thaw against all reason.

I lower my mouth to hers once more, the kiss carrying tenderness I've rarely allowed myself to express. Her arms wrap around my neck, pulling me closer as she melts beneath me with willing surrender that makes shadows sing with satisfaction.

Reverence guides my movements as I worship her with deliberate thoroughness, every touch a tribute, every kiss a promise.

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