Page 18 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

Exhaustion And Blood Thirst

~GWENIVERE~

" Y ou need to brush your teeth," Cassius says, his voice carrying that perfect blend of command and concern that somehow manages to be both irritating and endearing.

I groan in response, face half-buried in a pillow that smells wonderfully of him — cedar and night air, shadow and strength.

The thought of moving seems impossibly daunting. My limbs feel like they've been replaced with lead weights, muscles pleasantly sore in ways that remind me of exactly how we've spent the past hours.

"Five more minutes," I mumble, the words muffled against soft fabric.

"You said that fifteen minutes ago," he points out, amusement coloring his typically stoic tone. "And fifteen minutes before that."

I crack one eye open to glare at him, finding his tall form leaning against the doorframe with casual grace that shouldn't be allowed after such exertion.

His hair falls in artful disarray around features that have softened into something approaching playfulness — an expression I'm still not entirely used to seeing on his typically impassive face.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're incredibly annoying when you're right?" I grumble, reluctantly pushing myself into a sitting position. The borrowed shirt I've somehow acquired again slides off one shoulder, the fabric carrying his scent in ways that make me want to simply curl back into the warm cocoon of bedding and sleep for another century or two.

His lips curve into that rare smile that transforms his features from merely handsome to breathtaking.

"Multiple times, usually right before they regretted it."

The casual reference to his Duskwalker reputation should probably intimidate me. Instead, I find myself smiling back, warmth spreading through my chest at this glimpse of humor beneath his carefully maintained reserve.

"Fine," I concede with dramatic reluctance, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. "I'll brush my teeth, but I'm doing it under extreme duress."

"Noted," he responds dryly, watching as I struggle to my feet with all the grace of a newborn fawn.

My balance wavers immediately, exhaustion making the simple act of standing unexpectedly challenging. Cassius appears beside me with preternatural speed, one hand catching my elbow to steady me before I can topple over.

"Perhaps you need assistance," he suggests, concern replacing amusement in his silver eyes.

"I'm fine," I insist, pride making me straighten despite the heaviness in my limbs. "Just a little tired."

His expression turns skeptical, but he releases my arm, allowing me to make my way toward the adjoining bathroom with careful steps. The cool tile beneath my bare feet helps sharpen my awareness slightly, though not enough to entirely dispel the fog of exhaustion weighing me down.

The mirror above the sink reveals a reflection that makes me pause, momentarily startled by my own appearance.

My silver hair stands in wild disarray, tangled in ways that will require serious attention later. My lips appear slightly swollen, cheeks flushed with lingering warmth. Most telling are my eyes — pupils still slightly dilated, silver irises carrying a glow that speaks of magic recently activated.

I look thoroughly claimed, thoroughly satisfied, and thoroughly exhausted.

Cassius appears in the doorway behind me, his reflection joining mine in the mirror. The contrast between us is striking — his composed elegance against my disheveled state, his alert awareness against my obvious fatigue.

Yet something in his expression as he looks at me carries undisguised appreciation, as if he finds this chaotic version of me somehow appealing.

"You're falling asleep standing up," he observes, amusement returning to his tone.

I blink heavily, realizing he's right.

My eyelids keep drooping despite my best efforts to remain alert, body swaying slightly where I stand. The toothbrush I've somehow acquired remains poised in mid-air, toothpaste already applied but not yet put to its intended purpose.

"Am not," I argue weakly, the childish response slipping out before I can formulate something more mature.

His reflection raises one perfect eyebrow, the expression so perfectly skeptical it almost makes me laugh despite my exhaustion.

"You have five minutes to sleep standing before I'll have to haul one of the others to deal with you," he warns, crossing his arms with mock severity. "I have no idea how to handle you in this state."

The thought of Cassius — powerful Duskwalker prince, master of shadows and intimidation — being completely flummoxed by one sleepy hybrid witch is oddly endearing. The mental image of him desperately summoning Nikolai or Mortimer to help manage my exhausted form almost manages to cut through the fog of fatigue.

"I can handle myself," I grumble, finally bringing the toothbrush to my mouth with deliberate determination. "You can shoo and go take your willy wonka dick and tendrils with you."

His laughter catches me completely off guard — a rich, deep sound completely at odds with his usual carefully controlled demeanor. The sound reverberates through the bathroom, genuine amusement that makes something in my chest tighten with unexpected pleasure.

"You shouldn't be mad just because you're exhausted," he says, eyes gleaming with mischief I've rarely witnessed in him. "Especially considering how much we?—"

"Don't even finish that sentence," I warn, pointing my toothbrush at him threateningly, toothpaste foam somewhat undermining the intimidation factor.

His smile turns decidedly wicked.

"I was merely going to comment on our physical activities."

I narrow my eyes, not trusting the too-innocent tone one bit.

"I wasn't expecting you to visit me in my dreams, too," I counter, remembering the strange, shadow-filled dreamscape where we'd somehow continued our connection even after my conscious mind had surrendered to exhaustion. "What's up with that?"

"Duskwalker ability expanded," he explains with casual nonchalance that doesn't match the intensity of what we'd shared in that realm of dreams and shadows. "It was quite the rejuvenating experience on my end."

He actually winks at me, the gesture so unexpected from his typically serious demeanor that it momentarily leaves me speechless. This playful, almost flirtatious Cassius is a revelation — a side of him I never expected to witness, let alone be the cause of.

I take it back.

I hate him.

"Go fuck yourself with a tendril," I finally manage, trying to sound annoyed despite the smile tugging at my lips.

His chuckle follows me as I turn back to the task of brushing my teeth, determined to complete at least this basic hygiene practice before surrendering to the sleep that pulls at me with increasing insistence.

"I'll leave you to it," he says, his voice warm with amusement. "Try not to drown in the sink."

With that parting shot, he withdraws, footsteps receding down the hallway with that silent grace that marks him as something beyond ordinary. The bathroom suddenly feels larger without his presence, the absence of his energy creating space that feels almost hollow.

I focus on the mechanical act of brushing, the simple routine requiring more concentration than it should. My mind drifts despite my best efforts, thoughts turning to the dream connection Cassius had so casually referenced.

It had been unlike anything I'd experienced before — sensual and fulfilling in ways that transcended physical connection.

The dream space had allowed for experiences impossible in ordinary reality, our bond translating desire into manifestations that defied normal limitations. His shadows had surrounded us completely, creating a realm where space and time seemed to operate by different rules entirely.

Monster sex on crack .

My tired brain supplies helpfully, the crude assessment making me snort around my toothbrush. But it wasn't entirely inaccurate — the intensity had been beyond ordinary experience, my moans echoing in dimensions that existed somewhere between reality and imagination.

We'd seemed to exist there for days rather than hours, time stretching and compressing according to laws I couldn't begin to comprehend.

No wonder I'm so tired.

My reflection stares back at me through heavy-lidded eyes, the image of someone who's had an extremely eventful night of intimacy.

The marks at my neck and chest pulse with gentle warmth, the bonds with Cassius and Nikolai apparently satisfied by recent activities. I wonder briefly about Atticus's mark at my wrist, whether it feels similarly appeased or if it carries different expectations.

The thought of Atticus sends a different kind of warmth through me — not the satisfied glow of recent pleasure but something more complex.

Guilt mingles with curiosity, wondering how he might feel about what's transpired between Cassius and me. The bond between us is still so new, its nature and limitations unexplored territory.

He obviously knows we’re bonded just like with Nikolai. Plus, with him somehow using Grim in the mix to see everything, I’m pretty sure he’s very aware of everything that transpired behind closed doors.

One problem at a time .

I remind myself firmly.

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 clean up 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 desperate need. 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.

"Thank you," I say simply, the words carrying more weight than their syllables might suggest.

He inclines his head slightly, accepting the gratitude without comment. His crimson eyes watch with quiet intensity as I select a strawberry from the plate, the fruit bursting with sweet flavor that complements the lingering taste of blood in unexpected ways.

"You were quite thoroughly exhausted," he observes, the statement carefully neutral despite implications that make heat rise to my cheeks again.

"It's been an eventful morning," I respond, trying to match his tone while avoiding direct acknowledgment of activities he must surely have sensed through our bond.

His lips curve into that knowing smile that suggests he sees through my attempt at casualness.

"I'd say eventful night and morning, based on the magical resonance alone."

I choke slightly on a piece of melon, his bluntness catching me off guard despite knowing his tendency toward direct speech. The bond mark at my wrist pulses slightly, neither approving nor disapproving of recent events, merely acknowledging their occurrence with neutral awareness.

"Does it bother you?" I ask before I can stop myself, the question emerging from insecurities I hadn't realized ran so deep. "That Cassius and I..."

I trail off, unsure how to complete the sentence without being crudely explicit. Atticus studies me for a moment, his expression thoughtful rather than angry or jealous.

"Your bonds existed before mine," he says finally, selecting his words with obvious care. "Well, sort of.” I wonder what he means by that but he continues, “I knew what I was entering into when I claimed you as my Queen. Your connection with the Duskwalker and the Fae prince doesn't diminish what exists between us."

The mature acceptance in his voice surprises me, though perhaps it shouldn't. Whatever his appearance suggests about his age, Atticus carries centuries of experience in his bearing, wisdom acquired through lifetimes beyond my comprehension.

"It's unusual," I point out, reaching for a small sandwich to give my hands something to do. "Most paranormals are intensely possessive of their mates."

His smile turns slightly predatory, revealing the barely contained wildness that lurks beneath his civilized exterior.

"Oh, I'm absolutely possessive," he corrects, the casual admission sending a shiver down my spine. "But possession doesn't always mean exclusivity, especially with bonds formed through such unusual circumstances."

He steps closer, movements carrying that liquid grace that marks him as something beyond ordinary vampire. One finger traces the line of my jaw with feather-light precision, the touch sending sparks of awareness through newly energized nerve endings.

"Besides," he continues, voice dropping to a register that bypasses rational thought to resonate directly with more primal aspects of my nature, "I'm quite certain my Queen has enough passion to satisfy multiple bonds without diminishing any single connection."

Heat floods my system at the implication, blood rushing to my face with embarrassing speed.

"You're terrible," I accuse without heat, earning another of those devastating smiles that transform his features.

"I'm honest," he corrects, thumb brushing across my bottom lip in a touch that sends fresh sparks cascading through my system. "And patient, when the situation warrants."

The way he says "patient" carries layers of meaning beyond the simple word — promise and warning combined in equal measure. He's allowing space for existing bonds while making it clear his own claim remains valid, waiting rather than withdrawing.

My body, newly energized by his blood, responds to the subtle promise with interest that surprises me given recent exertions. The bond mark at my wrist pulses with answering awareness, warmth spreading up my arm in tendrils of sensation that make my breath catch slightly.

Atticus notices my reaction with obvious satisfaction, crimson eyes darkening slightly as he steps back to create distance between us.

The deliberate withdrawal feels like its own kind of claim — confidence that the connection between us doesn't require constant reinforcement to remain valid.

"You should eat," he reminds me, gesturing toward the plate of food with casual authority. "Then perhaps actual sleep in a proper bed rather than unconsciousness against bathroom fixtures."

The practical suggestion breaks some of the tension building between us, allowing me to breathe more easily as I select another piece of fruit. The berries burst with sweetness that helps ground me in physical reality after so many hours spent in stranger realms of shadow and dream.

"How did you know I needed blood?" I ask between bites, curiosity overcoming lingering embarrassment. "I didn't even realize it myself until the scent reached me."

"Your magic was depleted," he explains, leaning against the doorframe with casual elegance that makes the simple pose look like something from a fashion magazine. "Physical exhaustion alone wouldn't have affected you so profoundly. Blood hunger often manifests as lethargy in hybrids, especially those who tend to ignore their vampire nature in favor of other aspects."

The assessment is uncomfortably accurate. I've always prioritized my witch abilities, treating the vampire aspects of my nature as secondary despite their obvious influence on my physiology.

"I've never been good at balancing the different aspects of my nature," I admit, the confession easier with Atticus than it might have been with others. "It feels like they're constantly at war within me, each demanding priority over the other."

He studies me with thoughtful intensity, head tilted slightly as if seeing beyond surface appearance to the contradictions beneath.

"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, books arranged 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 .

The darkness that follows carries no threat, only promise of restoration and renewal when next I wake.