Page 93 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

The stability he provides requires more effort than his casual touch suggests, his slight frame tensing with exertion.

"Are you okay?" he asks, genuine concern warming his unusual voice.

"Fine," I respond automatically, regaining my balance while mentally cataloging the unlikely coincidence that placed someone directly in my path during that precise moment ofretreat. "I just bumped into someone, thought I was paying attention despite being mentally distracted."

I look up to identify who I've collided with, only to feel cold recognition spreading through my system.

Damien.

The vampire prince looks exactly as I remember, his aristocratic features arranged in expression of perpetual disdain, crimson eyes gleaming with malicious intelligence beneath perfectly styled hair.

He's accompanied by two other males with the unmistakable pallor of vampire lineage, their demeanor suggesting the typical entourage of lesser nobility eager to curry favor.

More interesting is the female standing slightly to his left – not quite part of his group yet clearly associated.

Her appearance strikes a discordant note among the uniformly male vampire contingent. Something about her magical signature registers as fundamentally inconsistent, waves of power emanating from her form that doesn't match pure vampire aura.

My gaze lingers on her, instincts instantly recognizing the truth Damien clearly wants to be obscured –she's a hybrid, just like me.

"Well, if it isn't Gabriel Hawthorne," Damien drawls, voice carrying that particular inflection of aristocracy that somehow transforms simple greeting into an insult. "Where are you off to? Not feeling like being embarrassed a second time around? Or was it third?"

His crew laughs on cue, though the confusion flickering across their faces betrays a lack of context for his taunt. They don't know about the cafeteria incident – this is pure performance for Damien's benefit, establishing dominance in new territory.

I straighten to my full height, my male form providing a slight advantage over Damien's stature.

"Who's the female hybrid?" I counter directly, ignoring his provocation in favor of a more interesting question. The slight widening of his eyes confirms my assessment struck a nerve before his expression smooths into practiced nonchalance.

He glances toward the girl, then back at me, lips curving into a sly grin that fails to reach his eyes.

"Jealous that I found the perfect team so soon?" he asks, deflection transparent in its obviousness. "Don't worry…Raven isn't a hybrid."

His hand settles possessively on the girl's shoulder, the gesture both proprietary and somehow demeaning.

"She's so dedicated to our prevail that she borrowed a dark fae's magic to assist our team in reaching the next phase of entrance in Wicked Academy," he continues, satisfaction evident in his tone. "It's quite commendable. I’m sure you’re playing student and have no clue how to reach Year Three so swiftly as we will be."

If that was the case, he wouldn’t be here trying to taunt me like it’ll get him some sort of reward.

I cross my arms, tilting my head to one side in a deliberate expression of skepticism.

"Do you actually believe such bullshit when her very aura screams hybrid?" The challenge is direct, calculated to potentially create tension between Damien and his new ally.

The girl –Raven– steps forward, dark eyes narrowing as she studies me with surprising intensity.

"Is this your ex?" she asks Damien directly, dismissing me with practiced disdain despite the threat my observation represents.

Damien's laugh carries genuine amusement, suggesting my assessment has struck closer to truth than he'd like to admit.

"Hell no," he responds with exaggerated disgust. "I wouldn't stoop so low for such a hybrid commoner."

Yeah, right. Mad his “friends” got first dibs before he could have a mere shot in trying to be with me.

He leans forward, making elaborate show of sniffing the air around me before recoiling with theatrical revulsion.

"Besides," he continues, gaze shifting to include our growing audience of interested students, "I don't walk around porta-potties."

Motherfucker…

The carefully calculated insult hits its mark, reopening wounds barely beginning to heal. Despite my determination to remain unmoved, I feel the heat rising to my face as students in the hallway begin laughing, the gathering crowd expanding as word spreads of entertaining confrontation.

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