Page 78 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

~GWENIVERE~

"You need to brush your teeth," Cassius says, his voice carrying that perfect blend of command and concern that somehow manages to be both irritating and endearing.

I groan in response, face half-buried in a pillow that smells wonderfully of him — cedar and night air, shadow and strength.

The thought of moving seems impossibly daunting. My limbs feel like they've been replaced with lead weights, muscles pleasantly sore in ways that remind me of exactly how we've spent the past hours.

"Five more minutes," I mumble, the words muffled against soft fabric.

"You said that fifteen minutes ago," he points out, amusement coloring his typically stoic tone. "And fifteen minutes before that."

I crack one eye open to glare at him, finding his tall form leaning against the doorframe with casual grace that shouldn't be allowed after such exertion.

His hair falls in artful disarray around features that have softened into something approaching playfulness — anexpression I'm still not entirely used to seeing on his typically impassive face.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're incredibly annoying when you're right?" I grumble, reluctantly pushing myself into a sitting position. The borrowed shirt I've somehow acquired again slides off one shoulder, the fabric carrying his scent in ways that make me want to simply curl back into the warm cocoon of bedding and sleep for another century or two.

His lips curve into that rare smile that transforms his features from merely handsome to breathtaking.

"Multiple times, usually right before they regretted it."

The casual reference to his Duskwalker reputation should probably intimidate me. Instead, I find myself smiling back, warmth spreading through my chest at this glimpse of humor beneath his carefully maintained reserve.

"Fine," I concede with dramatic reluctance, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. "I'll brush my teeth, but I'm doing it under extreme duress."

"Noted," he responds dryly, watching as I struggle to my feet with all the grace of a newborn fawn.

My balance wavers immediately, exhaustion making the simple act of standing unexpectedly challenging. Cassius appears beside me with preternatural speed, one hand catching my elbow to steady me before I can topple over.

"Perhaps you need assistance," he suggests, concern replacing amusement in his silver eyes.

"I'm fine," I insist, pride making me straighten despite the heaviness in my limbs. "Just a little tired."

His expression turns skeptical, but he releases my arm, allowing me to make my way toward the adjoining bathroom with careful steps. The cool tile beneath my bare feet helps sharpen my awareness slightly, though not enough to entirely dispel the fog of exhaustion weighing me down.

The mirror above the sink reveals a reflection that makes me pause, momentarily startled by my own appearance.

My silver hair stands in wild disarray, tangled in ways that will require serious attention later. My lips appear slightly swollen, cheeks flushed with lingering warmth. Most telling are my eyes — pupils still slightly dilated, silver irises carrying a glow that speaks of magic recently activated.

I look thoroughly claimed, thoroughly satisfied, and thoroughly exhausted.

Cassius appears in the doorway behind me, his reflection joining mine in the mirror. The contrast between us is striking — his composed elegance against my disheveled state, his alert awareness against my obvious fatigue.

Yet something in his expression as he looks at me carries undisguised appreciation, as if he finds this chaotic version of me somehow appealing.

"You're falling asleep standing up," he observes, amusement returning to his tone.

I blink heavily, realizing he's right.

My eyelids keep drooping despite my best efforts to remain alert, body swaying slightly where I stand. The toothbrush I've somehow acquired remains poised in mid-air, toothpaste already applied but not yet put to its intended purpose.

"Am not," I argue weakly, the childish response slipping out before I can formulate something more mature.

His reflection raises one perfect eyebrow, the expression so perfectly skeptical it almost makes me laugh despite my exhaustion.

"You have five minutes to sleep standing before I'll have to haul one of the others to deal with you," he warns, crossing his arms with mock severity. "I have no idea how to handle you in this state."

The thought of Cassius —powerful Duskwalker prince, master of shadows and intimidation— being completely flummoxed by one sleepy hybrid witch is oddly endearing. The mental image of him desperately summoning Nikolai or Mortimer to help manage my exhausted form almost manages to cut through the fog of fatigue.

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