Page 114 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

Just observation, tinged with residual hurt.

"I did," she confirms without defensiveness. "But not to replace anyone. To add to what we're building. You're not in competition, Atticus. There's no ranking system where someone has to lose for someone else to win."

The concept is foreign to vampire nature where hierarchy is everything, where there's always an alpha and everyone else falls in line. But looking at her, feeling our bond pulse with renewed strength, I want to believe it's possible.

"It's going to take time," I warn. "Centuries of vampire instinct don't just disappear."

"Then we take time," she says simply. "We work through it together. Every jealousy, every insecurity, every fear—we face them before they can be used against us again."

The promise makes something in my chest unclench that I didn't realize was twisted.

"I love you, Queen of Spades," I tell her, the words escaping before I can consider their wisdom. "Not just as Queen or bond-mate but as you. Impossibly you who’s one of a kind."

Her smile transforms her face from beautiful to radiant.

"I love you too," she says, and means it. "Possessive, dramatic, ancient you."

We'll have to leave soon. Have to find the others, complete their trials, escape this labyrinth. But for now, we hold each other in space that's ours, bond strengthened by confrontation with its own shadows.

The trial meant to break us has only clarified what we mean to each other.

And that's worth every drop of blood spent reaching this understanding.

Between Pages

~GWENIEVERE~

The journey back to our original room feels shorter than the trip out, as if the labyrinth recognizes completed trials and smooths the path in acknowledgment.

Atticus leans on me slightly—not enough to impede movement but sufficient to maintain contact, as if letting go might mean losing me again to his personalized nightmare.

The door appears before us with the particular certainty of destination reached rather than found. I push it open, helping Atticus through, and immediately hear Mortimer's voice.

"You made excellent time. The bond must have?—"

He stops mid-sentence as we fully enter, and I watch Atticus's expression shift from exhaustion to complete shock.

"What the fuck?"

The profanity escapes before vampire dignity can catch it, his crimson eyes widening as he takes in Mortimer's transformed appearance. The young dragon prince stands by the floating window, having clearly been monitoring our approach, and the full impact of his actual appearance hits Atticus like a physical blow.

"You're... young."

"Technically, I'm older than you," Mortimer responds with amusement that makes his golden eyes dance. "But I appreciate the compliment."

Atticus circles him slowly, taking in every detail with the particular intensity of a vampire cataloging potential competition. The silver-white hair that catches impossible light. The lean muscle visible through his partially unbuttoned shirt. The tattoos that shift and breathe with their own life. The entire package that screams power and beauty in equal measure.

"I'm definitely going to be jealous now," Atticus announces, though his tone carries more theatrical complaint than genuine threat. "First Cassius with his shadow prince mystique, now you with this ancient dragon prince aesthetic. What's next, Nikolai reveals he's secretly the most beautiful Fae in existence?"

"Probably," Mortimer responds with perfect seriousness. "Have you seen him in either form? The Fae don't do ugly, even when they're trying to hide."

"And Zeke probably has some devastating feline form we haven't witnessed yet," Atticus continues, throwing his hands up in mock defeat. "I'm surrounded by impossibly attractive men who all want the same woman."

"Your vampire beauty isn't exactly lacking," Mortimer points out, and there's something in his tone that makes Atticus pause. "Centuries of perfection tend to leave their mark."

They look at each other for a moment, and I can practically see the competitive testosterone filling the air like visible fog.

"Okay, stop," I groan, moving between them before this escalates into whatever male dominance ritual they're contemplating. "I don't need you two fighting. Be good."