Page 80 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

Right now, the most pressing issue is staying upright long enough to finish this simple task.

My eyelids grow heavier with each passing second, the soothing rhythm of brushing lulling me deeper into exhaustion's embrace.

The toothbrush continues its circular motion more through muscle memory than conscious direction, eventually settling into one corner of my mouth as my awareness drifts.

I don't notice the soft humming at first, the gentle melody blending with the ambient sounds of running water. The sensation of lips pressing softly against my cheek registers distantly, a phantom touch that feels both real and imagined.

"Queen of Spades," a familiar voice murmurs near my ear, warm breath tickling sensitive skin. "It's not hygienic to sleep standing with a toothbrush in your mouth."

"Hmm?" I manage, eyelids fluttering as I struggle to focus on my reflection.

The mirror shows only my exhausted form, no one standing behind me despite the unmistakable physical presence I can feel. The familiar scent reaches me — blood and night air with complex undertones of expensive cologne that speaks of refined taste beneath wild power.

Atticus.

I turn my head slightly, just enough to catch sight of his cunning smirk at the periphery of my vision. He hovers at the edge of perception, simultaneously present and not present, solid and ethereal.

Giving up on forming coherent words around the toothpaste foam still filling my mouth, I simply surrender to exhaustion, dropping my head to rest against his shoulder. He accepts the weight without comment, one hand rising to stroke my hair with surprising gentleness.

The silent gesture carries acceptance of responsibility — an understanding that I'm too exhausted to continue functioning without assistance. Part of me feels guilty for making him cleanup after another man has essentially claimed me all morning, but the larger part is simply too tired to protest the help.

His fingers card through my tangled hair with gentle precision, working out knots with patient care that speaks of experience beyond what I might have expected. The touch is soothing rather than arousing, comfort offered without expectation of return.

Just as I'm about to surrender completely to sleep, a scent reaches me that cuts through exhaustion with primal efficiency. Rich and metallic, warm with life and power, it calls to the vampire aspects of my nature with irresistible authority.

Blood.

My eyes snap open, fangs descending with autonomous response that bypasses conscious thought entirely. Before I fully register my own movements, those fangs have sunk into familiar flesh, the flow of warm blood across my tongue drawing a moan of pure relief from deep in my throat.

The taste is exquisite — richer and more complex than any blood I've encountered before, carrying notes of ancient power and something wild that defies classification. It flows freely, requiring no suction to draw it forth, as if offering itself willingly to satiate my unexpected thirst.

Only when the initial desperate need begins to subside do I realize what's happening: I'm drinking from Atticus, my fangs embedded in his flesh with intimate connection that transcends mere feeding. The pureblood vampire is allowing me sustenance that carries his essence, his power, his very being.

His voice reaches me through the blood-haze, gentle yet firm.

"Easy, my Queen. I'm going to need a bit of blood reserves to kick ass if anyone looks at you the wrong way."

The reminder penetrates my hunger-driven state, bringing awareness of boundaries I hadn't considered in my desperateneed. I've been drinking too much, too quickly, taking without proper appreciation for what's being offered.

With considerable effort, I retract my fangs, giving the wounds one final lick to encourage healing before pulling away completely.

The taste lingers on my tongue, power humming through my system with growing vitality that pushes back exhaustion's heavy weight.

Oh shit.

"I'm sorry," I manage, embarrassment heating my cheeks as I wipe a droplet of blood from the corner of my mouth.

A hiccup escapes me, the unexpected sound making my blush deepen further. Atticus smiles, the expression transforming his features from merely handsome to devastating.

"You drank too fast," he admonishes gently, reaching past me to retrieve a bottle of cold water I hadn't noticed before. "This should help."

The water is blissfully cold against my throat, washing away the last traces of blood while soothing the hiccups that continue to interrupt my attempts at dignified recovery.

As my awareness expands beyond immediate thirst, I notice the plate of fresh fruit and finger foods arranged nearby, the sight making my stomach growl with sudden hunger.

"I thought you might need proper sustenance," Atticus explains, seeing my attention shift to the food. "Blood provides energy, but your body still requires ordinary nutrition."

The thoughtfulness of the gesture touches me unexpectedly. While Cassius had teased and supported in his own way, Atticus has anticipated needs I hadn't even acknowledged to myself. The careful selection of foods —berries and cheese, small sandwiches and sliced melon— suggests consideration for both taste and nutritional value.

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