Page 28 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

Moments Stolen From Time

~GWENIVERE~

" W e should get moving," Cassius says, shadows already shifting in anticipation of our departure. "Time may be frozen here, but we still have an assignment to complete once we leave."

As everyone begins gathering themselves, Zeke suddenly pauses, his extraordinary eyes widening slightly as if remembering something important.

"Wait," he says, turning toward Atticus with an expression I can't quite decipher. "Didn't you have something to discuss with Gwenivere? Before we proceed?"

I gasp, the reminder striking me with unexpected force.

Between forming new bonds, discussing the throne, and planning our next steps, I'd completely forgotten Atticus had mentioned wanting to speak with me privately.

"Is there time?" I ask, glancing toward the hovering timepiece that indicates our limited protection from temporal consequences.

Mortimer and Cassius exchange a meaningful look before the scholar turns to Zeke.

"If we leave, will time remain suspended for those who stay behind?" he asks, academic precision seeking clarification of magical parameters rather than merely granting privacy.

Zeke nods, those remarkable cat-like eyes shifting to the ornate clockwork mechanism above.

"Technically speaking, yes. When you exit, time will continue normally for you, but in here, it remains suspended for another five minutes. The transition is... complex."

"A bit of mind fuckery," Atticus summarizes with characteristic bluntness that draws a reluctant smile from me despite the tension.

He turns to the others with casual confidence.

"Five minutes is all we need."

Cassius raises an eyebrow, shadows coiling with what might be amusement, but he simply nods in acceptance.

"Five minutes," he confirms before turning toward the door.

"Remember," I call after them, determination replacing momentary awkwardness, "the moment we're all out, stick to the plan. Cassius, head toward Nikolai's general location—I'll send the signal once we've figured out the aerial shot."

I turn to Mortimer and Zeke, ensuring everyone understands their role.

"You two coordinate everything for a smooth launch while Atticus catches up to Cassius. We'll bring Nikolai to the throne, explain quickly, and proceed with the final activation."

My voice takes on additional gravity as I emphasize what's truly at stake.

"We can't mess this up. This could be our last chance to progress together. Everyone needs to be at their best."

The weight of the situation suddenly presses against my chest, the realization that despite all our planning, success remains uncertain. These people have become more than allies—they've become something like family in this strange, dangerous place.

"This may have been an odd set of circumstances," I admit, vulnerability slipping through my usual determination, "but I'm truly glad to have met and experienced each of you."

Cassius groans dramatically, though his shadows betray the emotion he's trying to conceal.

"If you say it like that, I'll think we're all about to die."

Without warning, he crosses the space between us in two swift strides. His hands capture my face with surprising gentleness, tilting it upward as he lowers his mouth to mine in a kiss that steals my breath completely.

There's nothing hesitant or restrained about it. His lips claim mine with passionate intensity, shadows coiling around us like a protective cocoon as his tongue slides against mine in a dance that sends heat racing through my entire body.

I respond instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt to steady myself against the unexpected onslaught of sensation.

"Is this the new way of...saying goodbye?" Zeke asks, genuine confusion evident in his musical voice.

Mortimer's scholarly chuckle provides background to Atticus's irritated mutter.

"No, he's just being a selfish prick of a Duskwalker who wants to find out what it's like to get his ass kicked by a Pureblood."

The comment breaks through the momentary spell, drawing a deep chuckle from Cassius that vibrates against my lips before he slowly pulls away. His thumb traces my lower lip, a shadow tendril following the same path to wipe away the evidence of our connection.

"You won't get more of that unless you survive," he warns, silver eyes gleaming with equal parts mischief and genuine concern. "So do what you clearly do best and escape long enough for us to be reunited, Little Mouse. I know you're a pro at escaping."

I groan, pushing him away despite the lingering warmth his touch has left behind.

"Just go already."

"They're just deeply in love and like to share it in times of peril," Mortimer observes with a scholarly detachment that doesn't quite mask his amusement.

"Fuck off," Cassius responds without heat, shadows settling into more conventional patterns as he moves toward the door.

Mortimer approaches next, scholarly reserve momentarily abandoned as he wraps me in a surprisingly warm embrace.

"Thank you for having such a vibrantly kind heart," he says, sincerity evident in every word.

"If that were true, you would have let me bond with you," I counter, unable to completely hide my disappointment at his earlier refusal.

His smile carries wisdom beyond mere academic knowledge. "I'll take you up on that offer next time," he promises with an unexpected wink.

"There better not be a next time," I huff, crossing my arms with mock severity. "We shouldn't have to deal with this cyclical nonsense in Year Three. That wouldn't be creative enough of them."

"Agreed," he chuckles, scholarly facade softening into genuine warmth before he follows Cassius toward the exit.

Zeke approaches last, his newly formed bond with me creating subtle golden threads visible only when he moves into direct light.

I wrap my arms around his slender frame, still concerned by how fragile he feels despite the slight improvement following our connection.

"Make sure I can see you when we're departing for the throne," I instruct, protective instinct rising despite knowing he's survived far longer in this environment than I have.

He nods, those extraordinary eyes meeting mine with unguarded emotion I haven't witnessed in him before. He leans closer, lips nearly brushing my ear as he whispers.

"Thank you for being my friend, Gabe."

I pout at the masculine nickname.

"Gabe is kind of cute, but I swear you have to say Gwen when I'm in female form."

His smile transforms his features completely, joy replacing the careful caution that typically guards his expressions.

"I'll keep that in mind for Year Three," he promises before following the others through the doorway.

The moment the door closes behind them, sealing the temporal spell that protects this space from normal flow, I turn to ask Atticus what he wants to discuss.

At least try to turn.

The words never leave my mouth.

His hand wraps around the front of my neck with deliberate pressure that somehow manages to be both possessive and gentle simultaneously. He pulls me backward against his body, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressing against me with insistent heat.

Before I can process this sudden shift, his mouth descends on mine with devastating precision, swallowing any question I might have formed with a kiss that scorches through my system like wildfire.

There's nothing tentative about his approach. His lips claim mine with absolute certainty, tongue sweeping into my mouth with a possessive intensity that makes my knees weaken beneath me. The hand at my throat maintains just enough pressure to communicate dominance without restriction, his other arm wrapping around my waist to hold me firmly against him.

A moan escapes me, the sound swallowed by his hungry mouth as he walks me backward until I feel the solid surface of a bookshelf against my shoulder. His body presses closer, effectively pinning me between unyielding wood and the hard planes of his chest.

"Atticus," I gasp when he finally allows me to breathe, his mouth moving to my neck with a predatory focus that sends shivers cascading down my spine.

Mine, his body all but growls in silent possession.

Heat flares through my veins at the sudden, undeniable claim.

There is no hesitation in the way he pulls me against him, the solid wall of his chest pressing flush against my back, his scent — dark, rich, and laced with the subtle hint of magic — wrapping around me like a vice.

The air is sucked from my lungs in a single, sharp inhale as the unmistakable hardness of his body molds against my spine, every rigid muscle aligned with deliberate purpose.

He doesn’t give me a chance to process, doesn’t give me time to second-guess, because his lips crash into mine in a searing, brutal kiss that steals every rational thought from my mind. His tongue sweeps into my mouth with sinful mastery, claiming, demanding, taking.

Damn…I need this so fucking bad.

I arch into him instinctively, needing more, needing him, and he growls in approval. His fingers tighten around my throat—not to constrict, but to anchor, to command my focus entirely on the fire consuming us both. It’s not enough. It’s never enough with Atticus.

His free hand moves to my waist, fingers splaying wide as he grips my hip and pulls me harder against him.

The proof of his desire presses insistently into the curve of my ass, and a shudder wracks through me at the sheer intensity radiating from him.

“Five minutes,” he murmurs against my lips, voice rough, strained with a need barely leashed. “Five fucking minutes, Gwen. And I’m going to make every second count.”

I don’t get the chance to respond before his mouth is on me again—this time at my throat, his fangs scraping against the sensitive skin.

I whimper, my nails digging into his forearms, but the sound only fuels him. He nips at my pulse point, just enough to send a sharp spike of pleasure straight between my thighs.

He must feel it, the way my body reacts to him, because he chuckles darkly, his breath hot against my skin.

“Always so responsive,” he muses, his grip on my hip tightening as he turns me in his arms, my back hitting the bookshelf behind me. He presses forward, caging me in, his thigh slipping between my legs to part them just enough. “I could make you come just like they do, but so much faster. Make you cum again and again,” he continues, rolling his hips in a slow, deliberate grind that has me biting back a moan. “So fucking eager for me.”

“Atticus—”

He swallows whatever I was going to say with another kiss, this one slower, deeper, carrying the weight of everything left unsaid.

His fingers slide beneath the hem of my uniform shirt, palms rough against my feverish skin. I arch into his touch, desperate for more, but he keeps his pace excruciatingly slow, teasing, exploring, mapping every inch like he’s committing it to memory.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmurs, his lips tracing the line of my jaw. “How many times I had to watch you with them, knowing I was the one who should have been in their place.”

A flash of something sharp flickers in his crimson gaze—possession, jealousy, the weight of years spent apart. I reach for him, cupping his jaw, forcing him to meet my gaze. “Then take what’s yours,” I whisper, the words both a challenge and an invitation.

I become a bold bitch when it’s with another vampire. I’m proving that theory in real-time.

The shift is instant.

His restraint snaps like a thread pulled too tight, and suddenly, there’s no more patience, no more teasing. His hands are everywhere at once, pushing up my shirt, yanking at the fastenings of my pants.

I help him, fumbling with the buttons even as his fingers skim down my stomach, lower, until ? —

I gasp, my head falling back against the shelf as his fingers find me, pressing into the heat pooling between my thighs.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his breath coming out in a harsh exhale. “So wet for me already.”

I can’t speak, can’t think.

All I can do is feel as he strokes me with expert precision, coaxing pleasure from my body like he’s done this a thousand times before. My nails rake down his back, desperate for something to hold onto, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t relent.

He watches me, drinking in every gasp, every moan, every twitch of my hips as I chase the pressure building inside me.

“Look at me,” he demands, his voice rough, commanding. My eyes flutter open, barely able to focus as the coil tightens in my stomach. “I want to see you when you come for me.”

His thumb circles, and presses, building my ecstasy far too fast without even filling me yet. I want to tame myself, but I can’t. Not with that heavy needing gaze that’s boring into me, making me quiver while his fingers do the easy work of bringing me to the edge.

Until I shatter.

“Atticus!” I moan without a care of how loud I am.

The world narrows to nothing but him — the way his name rips from my lips, the way his arms wrap around me, grounding me even as I come apart in his grasp.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull away, drawing out every last tremor, every aftershock, until I’m nothing but a trembling mess in his arms.

Before I can catch my breath, he’s lifting me, my pants now gone, wrapping my legs around his waist, his mouth on mine again, hot and desperate.

“Not done with you yet,” he growls, grinding against me, the friction sending another pulse of need straight through me.

Gods, I don’t care that we only have minutes.

I don’t care about anything but this, but him. I pull him closer, nails digging into his shoulders as I arch against him.

“Then stop talking,” I whisper against his lips. “And finish what you started.”

His answering smirk is pure sin, then he’s moving and has me swiftly laid out on the closest desk, grabbing my wrists and pressing his body over me as he claims me completely.

Time may be frozen beyond this room, but here, with Atticus, every second is a lifetime of longing finally fulfilled.

Atticus’s breath is hot against my throat, his body a cage of muscle and need as he presses me harder into the desk beneath us.

Every sharp inhale, every rasp of his breath, is laced with raw possession, a hunger that has been denied for far too long. His fingers tighten on my wrists, keeping them pinned above my head, his strength an unyielding force that makes my heart pound in anticipation.

“Please,” I begin, desperate to get moving, knowing how pressure time is in this moment.

He chuckles darkly.

“Please, what, my Wicked Wife ?” His lips ghost over my jaw, his breath sending a shiver down my spine. “You need my cock?”

I nod frantically, heat curling in my belly.

“Yes, fuck, please?—”

But he doesn’t give me what I want. Instead, he moves lower, aligning himself at my entrance, teasing me with the blunt, swollen tip of his cock.

The moment I feel the sheer size of him, my breath catches.

Oh, fuck.

I knew he’d be big — he carries himself with that preserved, dangerous confidence that screams he knows exactly what he’s working with —but nothing could prepare me for the stretch, the heft of him as he rubs his thick length against my folds, coating himself in my arousal.

Atticus catches my expression, that small moment of realization flickering in my eyes, and a smug smirk tugs at his lips.

“What’s wrong?” he taunts, rubbing the broad head of his cock against my slit again, dragging it up to tease my clit before sliding back down. “Didn’t think I’d be this big?”

I bite my lip, unable to stop the needy whimper that escapes.

His smirk deepens, wicked and triumphant.

“Guess I’m a bit larger than dream monster cock, hmm?”

My cheeks burn, but I don’t get the chance to reply before he pushes in .

The stretch is impossibly good—just the thick head of him breaching me makes my entire body tense, pleasure sparking up my spine. My mouth parts in a soundless gasp as he slides deeper, the slow, inexorable push stealing my breath.

Atticus groans above me, a low, guttural sound of pure relief.

His grip on my wrists tightens, his chest rising and falling in deep, shuddering breaths.

“Fuck,” he rasps, his forehead pressing to mine. “You feel better than I imagined.”

He thrusts deeper, inch by inch, and I can only take it—my walls clenching, stretching around his impossible size. Every nerve in my body is alive and sensitive, my thighs shaking as he buries himself to the hilt.

He stills for a moment, letting me adjust, but his body trembles with restraint.

“I waited fucking years for this,” he growls, voice rough, feral. “Killed for this.” He licks along the shell of my ear, his grip tightening on my wrists as he presses me further into the desk. “You know that? Slaughtered men in the depths of prison just to make sure I got out…to claim what’s mine.”

The possessiveness in his tone sends a thrill through me, heat pooling low in my belly. His hips pull back before he slams into me again, making me cry out as he stretches me even further.

“So fucking tight ,” he groans, moving again, his pace unrelenting. “Like your pussy was made for me.”

I can’t even argue, not with the way my body reacts—taking him, clenching around him, milking him as he thrusts into me.

His pace is brutal and relentless, and all I can do is take it . His cock drags against every sensitive nerve, hitting that perfect spot with every deep, punishing thrust. My breasts bounce with every movement, and he watches , his crimson eyes darkening with lust.

“You like this, don’t you?” he taunts, his grip on my wrists unyielding as he pounds into me. “Letting me fuck you like I own you.”

I can’t speak, can’t form words through the pleasure, only moan as he drives into me harder.

He chuckles, dark and knowing.

“That’s right. Just take it, little mouse. Let me ruin this pussy.”

His hand moves from my wrists to my thigh, lifting my leg and pinning it against the desk to spread me even wider for him. The angle is devastating — he sinks even deeper, hitting a spot that has me seeing stars.

“Atticus—oh, fuck?—”

“That’s it,” he groans, fucking me deeper, rougher, harder . “Say my fucking name when I’m inside you.”

I do.

Again and again.

Until it’s the only thing leaving my lips, my moans rising in pitch as my climax builds.

Atticus leans over me, his weight pressing me flat against the desk, his cock driving into me at an angle that makes my body tremble with impending release.

“You gonna come for me?” he rasps against my ear, his teeth nipping at my throat. “Come all over my cock?”

I nod frantically, every muscle in my body tensing as the pressure builds impossibly high.

“Then do it,” he growls. “Fucking come for me .”

The command sends me over .

Pleasure crashes through me, my entire body shuddering as I unravel around him, my pussy clenching down so tight it makes him snarl .

“Fuck, Gwen ?—”

He slams into me one last time, burying himself deep , and then he’s gone—coming inside me with a guttural groan, his grip bruising on my wrists as his body shakes with release.

For a moment, all that exists is the sound of our breathing — heavy, uneven, desperate.

Atticus is still pressed against me, still inside me, his breath warm against my throat. His lips brush my jaw, softer now, reverent.

“Mine,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You’ve always been mine.”

I don’t have the strength to argue.

And I’m not even sure I want to.

"You better never disintegrate in front of me like that again," Atticus murmurs against my hair, the casual phrasing belied by raw emotion vibrating beneath each word. "I'll lose my fucking mind."

The statement triggers sudden understanding — recognition of what he truly feared during the trial, what's been haunting him since witnessing what appeared to be my destruction.

The vision replayed in his mind without the opportunity to process or confront it, trauma deepened by lack of time to properly acknowledge what it meant to him.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, turning to capture his mouth in a kiss meant to convey everything words cannot adequately express.

His arms move and tighten around me, protective instinct is evident in every line of his body.

"Next time, warn me before you let a dragon shifter split your consciousness into multiple versions."

The dry humor draws unexpected laughter from me, tension easing between us despite the rapidly approaching end of our stolen moment.

"If we're going to die," I tell him, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw with wondering appreciation, "I guess I'll have to ensure we die together."

"Damn right," he agrees with fierce conviction, claiming my mouth once more in a kiss that carries equal parts promise and warning. When he finally pulls back, determination has replaced momentary vulnerability. "Now let's go change history or die trying."

As we reluctantly separate, reclaiming discarded clothing with efficiency born of urgent necessity rather than embarrassment, the bond between us continues humming with renewed strength.

The timepiece above chimes a soft warning, indicating our temporal extension approaches final conclusion. If we remain beyond its protection, consequences Mortimer described await — decay and suffering from violated natural law rather than merely missed opportunity.

We move toward the door with renewed purpose, each step bringing us closer to whatever lies beyond this momentary sanctuary. The trials ahead remain daunting, obstacles seemingly designed to prevent exactly what we intend to accomplish.

"Ready?" Atticus asks hand extended toward mine with a question that encompasses far more than immediate departure.

I intertwine our fingers without hesitation, the bond mark pulsing with pleased recognition at renewed contact.

"Ready," I confirm, the simple word carrying the weight of promise rather than mere acknowledgment.

Together, we step through the doorway, leaving suspended time behind as we move toward the future neither of us can fully predict but both are determined to shape according to our collective will rather than the academy's predetermined design.

Let’s finish what we’ve started…this trajectory of fate.