Page 82 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

"Integration rather than balance might be a more useful approach," he suggests after a moment. "The different aspects aren't separate entities fighting for control… they're facets of a single, unique being."

The perspective shift makes me pause, sandwich halfway to my mouth as I consider implications I hadn't previously examined. I've always thought of myself as hybrid —part vampire, part witch, never fully either— rather than something wholly unique that incorporates elements of both while being entirely its own classification.

"That's...actually helpful," I acknowledge, earning another of those transformative smiles that make his features almost unbearably beautiful.

"I have occasional moments of insight," he responds with mock modesty that draws an unexpected laugh from me.

The sound seems to please him, satisfaction flickering across his expression before he masks it with more neutral assessment.

"You're looking better already," he notes, eyes tracking the renewed color in my cheeks, the greater alertness in my posture. "My blood has certain...restorative properties."

The casual reference to his pureblood status reminds me of questions still unanswered, mysteries surrounding his true nature and connection to me.

The pendant at my throat —my Year Two advancement token— pulses slightly, as if responding to thoughts of hidden truths and revelations yet to come.

"Thank you," I say again, the simple words carrying appreciation beyond mere gratitude for food and blood. "For taking care of me even though I was essentially a mess from being with someone else."

His expression turns serious, crimson eyes holding mine with intensity that makes my breath catch.

"Your wellbeing matters regardless of circumstances," he states, the simple declaration carrying weight that settles in my chest with unexpected warmth. "Besides, I'm playing the long game here, my Queen."

Before I can ask what exactly he means by "long game," a yawn overtakes me with surprising force. Despite blood and food providing renewed energy, the bone-deep exhaustion remains, body demanding proper rest after hours of intense activity.

Atticus notices immediately, pushing away from the doorframe with fluid grace.

"Finish your water," he instructs gently, "then I'll help you to bed."

The suggestion carries no innuendo, merely practical concern for my obvious fatigue. I comply without argument, draining the last of the water before allowing him to guide me from the bathroom with gentle efficiency.

Instead of returning to Cassius's room as I half-expected, he leads me to what must be my assigned chamber in these new Year Two accommodations.

The space has been personalized with surprising attention to detail — silver accents that complement my coloring, booksarranged on shelves in categories I typically prefer, even a small collection of daggers displayed on one wall that match my preferred fighting style.

"How...?" I begin, gesturing toward these personalized touches with confusion. I'd never specified preferences for my living space, yet everything appears arranged precisely as I might have chosen myself.

"The academy adapts to its students," Atticus explains, guiding me toward the bed with gentle insistence. "Though perhaps with additional input from those who know you well."

The implication that he had a hand in these selections sends another wave of warmth through me, gratitude mingling with something deeper I'm too tired to properly examine. The bed looks impossibly inviting, crisp sheets turned down in silent invitation to rest that my exhausted body can't resist.

I sink onto the mattress with a sigh of pure relief, muscles relaxing into support that feels perfectly calibrated to my preferences. Atticus helps me settle beneath the covers with efficiency that speaks of experience rather than awkwardness, his movements practical rather than presumptuous.

"Sleep now," he says softly, fingers brushing silver hair from my forehead with surprising tenderness. "Year Two classes actually begin tomorrow. Professor Eternalis confirmed when you and Cassius were still sleeping. You'll need your strength."

The reminder of upcoming challenges should probably concern me, but exhaustion makes immediate rest seem far more pressing than future trials.

It does give me a bit of relief that we have one more day of actual rest. To not fear about anything happening or waking up in a different world of sorts, seconds from tackling another set of trials that intend to kill us.

My eyelids grow impossibly heavy as his hand continues its gentle stroking of my hair, the rhythmic movement lulling me deeper toward sleep.

Just before consciousness slips away completely, I feel the press of lips against my forehead — cool yet somehow warming, brief yet lingering in sensation. The touch carries affection without demand, protection without possession, care without expectation of return.

"Dream well, my Queen of Spades," Atticus whispers, voice following me into gathering darkness. "I'll stand guard while you rest."

The promise accompanies me into dreams, creating a foundation of security that allows complete surrender to sleep's embrace. The complications await in waking hours —multiple bonds, upcoming trials, the continuing search for Elena's chalice— can wait until proper rest has restored my strength and clarity.

For now, in this moment of perfect exhaustion, I allow myself to simply accept care freely offered, protection willingly provided, connection deepened through vulnerability rather than strength.

Maybe that's its own kind of strength.

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