Page 108 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

I gawk at him, the crude humor so unexpected from scholarly Mortimer that my brain short-circuits momentarily.

"Wait, really? I could actually breathe fire?"

He moves closer, hand rising to cup my cheek with gentleness that contrasts his earlier passion.

"Now that we're bonded, you could potentially tap into my power of dragon sorcery if you yearned to. Add to that my blood running through your veins, and yes, it could amplify abilities you didn't know you had."

His thumb traces my cheekbone, leaving trails of warmth that have nothing to do with temperature.

"But don't go thinking you're going to shift into a dragon. There are limits."

The qualification makes me grin with mischief that I know probably concerns him.

"Limits but not impossible?"

The look he gives me is part exasperation, part fond concern—the expression of someone who knows they've just handed matches to a pyromaniac.

"Gwenievere..."

"Okay, okay," I concede, hands raised in mock surrender. "No testing out that theory... until Year Four."

His eyebrow arches with scholarly skepticism that looks devastating on his young face.

"Year Four?"

"Well, I need something to look forward to after we survive whatever this is."

The levity helps, makes the impossible situation feel manageable. If we can joke about future plans, then we believe there will be a future to plan for.

"I should go," I say, moving toward the door.

He catches my wrist before I can reach the handle, the touch electric with our new connection. The bond mark burns—not painfully but with awareness, like my body is recalibrating to recognize him as fundamentally important to survival.

"Wait."

I turn back, and he pulls me closer with gentle insistence. When his lips meet mine, it's nothing like our earlier passion. This kiss is soft, careful, carrying weight that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with concern.

The tenderness of it makes my chest tight with emotions I don't have time to examine.

When he pulls back, his dragon eyes hold worry that scholarly Mortimer would have hidden behind academic distance.

"What's wrong?"

He shakes his head, but his hand remains on my cheek, thumb tracing patterns that might be draconic script or might just be nervous movement.

"The trials ahead will be individualized to each bonded mate. They're not in their right mindset—the labyrinth has them caught in loops of their own making."

His other hand rises to frame my face completely, holding me like something precious that might break.

"You'll have to get through to them the best way you know how."

The warning carries the weight of someone who's seen trials break people, who understands that psychological warfare is often more devastating than physical combat.

"I'll bring them back here," I promise, meaning it with conviction that surprises me. "All of them. Then we can move forward as a unit."

"Together," he agrees, and the word carries promise of more than just group dynamics.

One more kiss—quick, fierce, carrying blessing and warning in equal measure—and then he steps back.