Page 16 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

Dawn's Surrender

~GWENIEVERE~

S unrise filters through the room like liquid gold, warm and languid as it spills across surfaces still half-shrouded in fading night.

The gentle transition from darkness to light tugs at my consciousness, drawing me slowly from the depths of dreamless sleep into a state of peaceful awareness.

I can't remember the last time I felt this comfortable, this perfectly warm and content. Even before opening my eyes, I sense something different about this waking moment — a security that goes beyond mere physical comfort, touching something deeper within me that's been brittle with wariness for too long.

My body feels wonderfully heavy, limbs loose with the kind of relaxation that only comes from truly restful sleep. The pillow beneath my cheek carries an unfamiliar scent — cedar and night air with subtle undertones of something sharper, almost metallic, yet oddly comforting.

When I finally allow my eyelids to lift, the world comes into focus with lazy reluctance.

The first thing I register is that I'm not alone.

Sometime during the night, I've become thoroughly entangled with another body. My legs are wrapped around a muscular thigh, one arm draped across a chest that rises and falls with deep, even breaths.

My head rests not on a pillow as I'd thought, but in the crook of a shoulder, my face nestled against a neck where I can feel the steady pulse of a heartbeat against my cheek.

Cassius.

The realization brings a rush of heat to my face, embarrassment flooding through me as I become acutely aware of our intimate position. I've essentially climbed him in my sleep, wrapping myself around his form like ivy seeking support from a sturdy oak.

Yet despite my initial mortification, I make no immediate move to disentangle myself. There's something profoundly peaceful about this moment — this quiet intimacy unmarred by the complications and tensions that fill our waking interactions.

Instead, I take the opportunity to study him in a way I've never been able to before.

In sleep, Cassius looks younger, the carefully maintained mask of Duskwalker stoicism temporarily abandoned.

His features, typically set in careful neutrality or calculated distance, have softened into an expression of genuine peace. The harsh lines usually marking his brow have smoothed away, and his lips — those same lips that have hardly ever curved into true smiles in my presence — appear almost gentle in repose.

His silver-black hair falls across his forehead in disarray, so different from its usual immaculate arrangement. The sight of these unruly strands humanizes him somehow, transforming the untouchable Duskwalker prince into someone more accessible, more real.

My gaze drifts to his closed eyes, noting how his lashes cast delicate shadows against his high cheekbones. Those eyes, when open, carry centuries of carefully controlled observation — silver depths that seem to catalog every detail without revealing the thoughts behind them.

Now, with their piercing intensity hidden behind closed lids, I can admire the perfect arch of his brows, the subtle hollow at his temples, the barely visible scar that traces a fine line along his left cheekbone.

Where did that come from?

I wonder, resisting the urge to trace it with my fingertip. What battle or trial left its mark on a being whose very nature should make him impervious to most physical harm?

I glance around the room, seeking Grim's miniature form.

The little shadow being is nowhere to be found, having apparently disappeared sometime during the night. His absence leaves us truly alone, observed by no one as dawn gradually strengthens outside.

My attention returns to Cassius, unable to resist the pull of his sleeping presence. I've never seen him this unguarded, this vulnerable.

Sure, asleep, yes…but like this. It’s much more raw…and beautiful.

The realization sends a different kind of warmth through me — not the heat of embarrassment but something more tender, more dangerous to my carefully maintained emotional boundaries.

Against better judgment, I find myself reaching up, fingers hesitating just millimeters from his face before making contact. The touch is feather-light, barely there as I stroke his cheek with the barest whisper of contact.

His skin feels cool beneath my fingertips, yet somehow radiates a different kind of warmth — the kind that comes from within rather than from physical temperature.

What are you dreaming about?

The question forms in my mind as I watch the subtle movements behind his closed eyelids, evidence of whatever visions visit him in sleep.

Are they filled with shadow and duty, with the weight of Duskwalker legacy and princely obligations? Or does he dream of simpler things — sunlight and color that his people typically shun but that I've caught him observing with quiet fascination when he thinks no one notices?

My hand stills against his cheek as another question surfaces.

Why is he here?

The last thing I remember is watching his shadow tendrils painting while he slept by the window. I'd settled on his bed, intending only to rest briefly while enjoying the unexpected artistry of his unconscious creation.

Obviously, I'd fallen asleep — but that doesn't explain how we ended up entangled like lovers.

Did he try to leave only to find me somehow preventing his departure? Did he choose to stay rather than disturb my rest?

The possibilities create a complicated tangle of emotions in my chest. Whatever his reasons, the resulting intimacy feels like something precious and fragile — a moment of connection untainted by the tensions that have strained our bond since the cafeteria incident.

Instead of pulling away as prudence might dictate, I allow myself to relax further against him.

The steady rhythm of his breathing is hypnotic, lulling me into a state of contentment that feels almost foreign after so many days of constant vigilance and stress. The mark at my neck — his mark — pulses gently, responding to our proximity with quiet satisfaction.

The bond between us is a complicated reality I can neither deny nor fully embrace.

It formed under circumstances neither of us fully controlled, yet its existence is undeniable, its pull insistent even when my conscious mind resists. Here, wrapped in the peaceful cocoon of early morning intimacy, I can acknowledge what I typically push aside: regardless of how it formed, this connection between us means something.

He means something.

Despite his failure to intervene during my public humiliation, despite the hurt and betrayal that still lingers from that incident, I can't dismiss what came before.

Cassius was the first of them to truly see me, to offer blood and protection when I needed it most. He was the first to form this binding magic with me, accepting the risk and implications of such a connection without hesitation.

The memory of that night — of shadows cradling me with unexpected gentleness, of his blood offering life and strength when mine failed — sends a different kind of heat through me.

More pointed than embarrassment, more complex than simple desire, it carries notes of gratitude and need that transcend physical attraction.

His scent surrounds me, intensifying the memory rather than dispersing it. Cedar and night air, shadow and strength, the metallic tang of power carefully controlled. I breathe it in, letting it fill my lungs and imprint itself on my memory.

A slight change in his breathing alerts me that he's no longer lost in dreams.

My gaze lifts just as cool fingers touch my cheek, feather-light against my skin. Our eyes meet, his silver depths half-veiled by still-heavy lids, mine undoubtedly wide with surprise at being caught in such intimate observation.

The moment stretches between us, seconds extending into what feels like minutes as something unspoken yet profoundly significant passes through our locked gaze. He makes no move to pull away or to push me from him.

Instead, his eyes search mine with quiet intensity, seeking something I'm not sure I know how to give.

What I see in his gaze steals the breath from my lungs.

Beneath the typical silver coolness lies vulnerability I've never witnessed in him before — uncertainty, need, and something deeper that makes my heart stutter in my chest. He's looking at me as if seeking permission, as if this moment balanced on the edge of a blade might lead to either redemption or further fracture.

I'm not sure what my own eyes reveal, but I know what I'm seeking in return — a resolution, a way forward that acknowledges the hurt without letting it poison what exists between us.

The bond may have formed through circumstances beyond our control, but what we do with it now belongs solely to us.

His thumb traces a delicate path along my cheekbone, the touch so gentle it makes my chest ache. How can the same hands that command shadows with lethal precision deliver a caress so carefully calibrated it feels like worship?

"Cassius," I whisper, not entirely sure what I intend to follow the sound of his name.

Apology? Accusation? Acknowledgment of this fragile moment we've stumbled into?

His fingers drift lower, thumb trailing along the curve of my bottom lip in a touch so light it might be imagined if not for the spark of sensation it leaves in its wake.

I feel the slight tremor in his hand, see the conflict in his eyes — desire warring with restraint, need battling with the fear of causing further harm.

"Can I kiss you, Little Mouse?"

The question emerges as barely more than breath, his voice rough with sleep and something that might be vulnerability.

The sound of that familiar nickname — Little Mouse — sends a pang through my chest. He's called me this from our first real conversation, the endearment carrying notes of affectionate teasing beneath Duskwalker reserve.

To hear it now, softened further by the intimacy of our position, dismantles whatever resistance I might have mustered.

Any intention to maintain distance crumbles like sand castles against rising tide. Instead of answering with words, I close the minuscule space between us, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that carries all the complexity our situation demands.

The initial contact is gentle, almost tentative — a question offered rather than passion demanded. His lips feel cool against mine, yet somehow ignite heat that spreads through my core with alarming speed. The contradiction is fitting for a Duskwalker, whose very nature embodies paradox: cold exterior concealing burning depths, darkness housing unexpected light.

For a heartbeat, he remains perfectly still, as if afraid the slightest movement might shatter this moment of connection. Then the hand at my cheek slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head with exquisite care as he begins to respond.

The kiss deepens by gradual degrees, each subtle shift bringing new dimensions of sensation. His lips move against mine with deliberate precision, each pressure and retreat carefully calibrated as if he's learning the unique language of my responses.

There's restraint in his movements, a careful control that speaks of his determination not to overwhelm or rush this fragile reconnection.

I feel the bond mark at my neck warming, responding to our proximity with heightened sensitivity that sends waves of pleasure cascading through my system. The sensation makes me gasp against his mouth, the small sound seemingly flipping some switch within him.

A low growl — barely audible yet vibrating through the chest pressed against mine — signals the first crack in his careful control. His other arm wraps around my waist, pulling me more firmly against him as the kiss transforms from gentle exploration to something hungrier, more primal.

My body responds instantly, melting against him as if crafted specifically for this purpose. My fingers tangle in his hair, the silky strands cool against heated skin as I anchor myself to him.

The taste of him fills my senses — shadow and nightfall, something ancient and powerful yet surprisingly sweet beneath the initial sharpness.

His tongue traces the seam of my lips, requesting rather than demanding entry despite the growing urgency in his embrace. When I yield, opening to him with a sigh that carries notes of surrender, the kiss deepens into something that transcends mere physical pleasure.

Images flood through my mind — not memories but sensations translated into visual form. Silver moonlight spilling across dark water. Shadow flowers unfurling beneath midnight skies. Stars burning cold and distant yet somehow intimate enough to touch.

The bond.

I realize distantly, the thought barely forming before being swept away by new waves of sensation. This connection between us translates emotion into shared experience, building bridges between separate consciousnesses in ways I've never encountered before.

His hand at my waist slides lower, following the curve of my hip with possessive appreciation that leaves trails of heightened sensitivity in its wake. Though the touch remains over the fabric of my borrowed shirt, it feels more intimate than skin against skin — each point of contact carrying intention that transcends mere physicality.

The kiss continues to evolve, transforming into a conversation without words, an exchange of apology and forgiveness, need and acceptance. His teeth catch my bottom lip in gentle reprimand when I try to rush, the slight pressure a reminder that he intends to set the pace of this reunion.

And I let him, yielding control with a willingness that would surprise me under other circumstances.

There's something intensely liberating about this surrender — about allowing someone else to lead while I simply experience the journey. Especially someone who kisses as Cassius does, with focused attention that makes each moment feel discovered rather than simply experienced.

His hand tangles further in my hair, tilting my head to grant him better access as the kiss deepens beyond what I thought possible. The slight change in angle sends fresh sparks of pleasure cascading through me, drawing a sound from my throat that carries no coherent meaning beyond pure appreciation.

The sound seems to affect him profoundly, his body tensing beneath mine for a heartbeat before relaxing into something more purposeful. The arm around my waist tightens, rolling me beneath him with fluid grace that leaves me breathless even before his weight settles partially over me.

The new position changes everything, transforming what was mutual exploration into something that carries notes of dominance without crossing into domination. He supports his weight on his forearms, careful not to crush me while still providing the delicious pressure of his body against mine.

Looking up at him from this new vantage, I'm struck by the transformation in his features. Gone is the careful neutrality that typically masks his emotions. In its place is raw hunger tempered by something deeper, more profound — a tenderness that makes my chest ache even as desire coils tighter in my core.

His silver eyes have darkened to the color of storm clouds, pupils expanded to leave only a thin ring of their usual color visible.

His hair falls forward, creating a curtain that blocks out the strengthening daylight and encloses us in a more intimate space where only we exist.

"Little Mouse," he murmurs, the nickname carrying new weight in this context. His voice has roughened further, acquiring texture that scrapes deliciously against my senses. "Tell me to stop if this isn't what you want."

The words, offered when every line of his body screams desire, speak volumes about his character. Even now, with control clearly fraying at the edges, he places my comfort above his need.

The realization sends fresh warmth through me that has nothing to do with physical desire and everything to do with deeper recognition.

"Don't stop," I whisper, reaching up to trace the sharp line of his jaw with wandering fingers. "Please."

Something flashes in his eyes — relief, need, and darker satisfaction that makes my pulse quicken. His lips curve into the rarest of expressions: a genuine smile that transforms his features from merely handsome to breathtaking.

"As you wish," he murmurs, the formal phrasing somehow perfect for this moment of significance beyond mere physical connection.

When his mouth claims mine again, all pretense of gentleness has vanished. This kiss carries intention clear as crystal, promise evident in every purposeful movement of his lips against mine.

His tongue plunges into my mouth with confident possession, tasting and taking with thoroughness that leaves no corner unexplored.

I meet him with equal fervor, arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer as my body arches beneath his. The mark at my neck burns now, no longer merely warm but actively radiating sensation that spreads through my system like wildfire.

Each pulse sends fresh waves of pleasure cascading through nerve endings suddenly hypersensitive to every touch, every pressure, every subtle shift of his body against mine.

His hand at my waist slides beneath the hem of my borrowed shirt, fingers splaying across bare skin with possessive appreciation.

The contact sends electricity racing through my system, each point where skin meets skin becoming its own center of sensation. Yet even as desire builds to nearly unbearable levels, I sense his continued restraint — the careful way he holds something back, ensuring I'm not overwhelmed by the full force of whatever burns beneath his controlled exterior.

The kiss deepens further, evolving beyond technique into pure expression of need and desire too long denied. His teeth graze my bottom lip, the slight pressure sending shivers racing down my spine to pool as liquid heat in my core.

When he soothes the same spot with his tongue, the contrasting sensations draw a moan from deep in my throat.

The sound seems to shatter something in him. His control — that carefully maintained Duskwalker composure — finally breaks, replaced by something wilder, more primal.

Shadows swirl around us, responding to emotions he typically keeps rigidly contained. They don't feel threatening but protective, cocooning us in darkness that somehow enhances rather than diminishes the intensity of sensation.

His kisses turn hungrier, more demanding, each one taking me deeper into territories I've never explored. His body presses more firmly against mine, allowing me to feel the evidence of his desire with crystal clarity.

The knowledge that I affect him so strongly, that I've managed to crack the perfect control of this Duskwalker prince, sends a different kind of satisfaction through me.

My hands explore the planes of his back, tracing muscle that shifts beneath my touch with clear purpose. Through the fabric of his shirt, I can feel unnatural heat radiating from his typically cool skin — further evidence of control abandoned in favor of genuine response.

When his mouth finally leaves mine, I nearly protest until I feel those same lips tracing a path along my jaw, then down the sensitive column of my neck.

He pauses at my pulse point, breath hot against skin that feels hypersensitive in the aftermath of such thoroughness.

"Mine," he whispers against my throat, the single word carrying weight and meaning beyond its simplicity.

Then his lips close over the bond mark at my neck, and rational thought dissolves into pure sensation.