Page 94 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

The memory surfaces with brutal clarity – yellow liquid soaking my uniform, the stench infiltrating every breath, cameras recording my humiliation while my bond mates watched without intervention.

My hands clench into fists at my sides, magic rising unbidden beneath my skin, blood heating with vampire rage that threatens my carefully constructed composure.

Before I can respond –or lose control– Zeke steps directly between us, his slight form somehow expanding with righteous indignation. Despite barely reaching Damien's shoulder in height, he plants himself firmly in a protective stance, those extraordinary eyes flashing with unexpected intensity.

"It's rather rude to bully someone who didn't provoke you," he states, voice carrying surprising authority despite its musical quality.

Damien's grin widens, predatory anticipation replacing momentary surprise at this unexpected intervention.

"Well, look at this," he says, gaze sweeping over Zeke's slender frame with deliberate assessment. "The frail pipsqueak has some balls."

I expect Zeke to retreat given the obvious threat, but he remains steadfast, his posture suggesting deep-rooted courage I wouldn't have predicted from his previously timid demeanor.

His unwavering protection triggers complex emotions I don't have time to process – appreciation mingled with concern at what this alliance might cost him.

"We should go," I say, placing hand lightly on his shoulder, offering an exit strategy from a rapidly deteriorating situation.

We don’t have time for all this commotion. I need to learn more about this side of the academy, and that won’t be discovered entertaining past baggage.

Zeke nods without looking away from Damien, maintaining eye contact that borders on supernatural challenge.

"Professor Mortimer has summoned us to the library anyway," he states with a calm certainty that takes me by surprise. Before I can question how he knows Mortimer or whether this summons actually exists, Zeke reaches back to grasp my hand.

The touch carries barely any physical strength, yet something in the connection compels me to follow as he begins moving away from Damien's group.

"Running away already?" Damien calls after us, voice pitched to carry through the corridor. "Typical hybrid behavior…all flash, no substance!"

The taunts continue as we create distance, each one designed to provoke a reaction that would justify escalation.

I resist the urge to respond, focusing instead on the curious warmth of Zeke's hand leading me through the crowded hallway with unexpected confidence.

As we turn the corner, I glance back once, my gaze connecting briefly with Raven's. Her dark eyes narrow with calculation rather than the mockery displayed by Damien's other companions. The expression carries weight beyond simple disdain – recognition, perhaps, or assessment that feels strangely personal despite our lack of prior interaction.

My instincts are rarely wrong when it comes to identifying paranormal classifications. She's definitely hybrid, though her specific combination remains unclear.

The more pressing question isn't what she is, but what she wants from Damien – and whether her presence represents simple alliance of convenience or something more strategic in nature.

Weird…

We maintain a brisk pace until reaching a less crowded section of the corridor, where Zeke finally releases my hand, his slender fingers sliding away with reluctance that suggests he found comfort in the connection.

"There's no library summons, is there?" I ask, already knowing the answer from the slight flush rising to his cheeks.

"No," he admits, gaze dropping momentarily before rising to meet mine with surprising directness. "But it seemed better than staying there."

I study him with renewed interest, reassessing initial impressions in light of this unexpected display of protective courage. Despite his seeming frailty, Zeke possesses a core of strength that manifests not in physical power but moral certainty – willingness to stand against obvious threats despite personal risk.

"Why did you do that?" The question emerges before I can consider its implications, curiosity overriding caution.

He blinks, confusion evident in his expression as if the answer should be obvious.

"He was being cruel for no reason," Zeke responds simply. "Someone should say something."

The uncomplicated morality of his statement strikes me with unexpected force. In a world of careful calculation and strategic alliances that define academy life, such a straightforward ethical stance feels almost jarringly pure.

He surely gets bullied all the time but no one is defending him.

"Most people wouldn't put themselves at risk for someone they barely know," I point out, testing his response for hidden motivation.

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