Page 96 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

The air splits like fabric tearing, revealing space between spaces.

Through that gap steps?—

I gawk.

There's no other word for the complete failure of higher brain function that occurs when I see him.

This is not the Mortimer I know.

Holy fucking hell…

Gone is the scholarly older gentleman with silver-touched temples and careful dignity. This is Mortimer as he truly is, aging's mask removed to reveal what time has been hiding.

He's tall—taller than I realized, perhaps six-foot-eight when he's not slightly stooped in scholarly hunch. But he stands straight now, shoulders back, carrying his height like a weapon rather than a burden.

His hair is silver-white but not from age—this is the natural color, falling past his shoulders in waves that catch light with almost metallic sheen. It's pulled back in a high ponytail that should look ridiculous, but instead gives him an ancient warrior aesthetic.

Like samurai who've transcended the need for armor because their very presence is protection enough.

His face is devastating.

Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, features that belong on classical statues, except for the very alive heat in his eyes. Those dragon eyes—golden with vertical pupils that contract anddilate as he watches me watch him—are framed by dark lashes that shouldn't be fair on someone already this attractive.

But it's his body that makes my mouth go dry.

The male uniform is similar to mine but different in crucial ways. Leather pants that ride low on the hips, I didn't know existed beneath scholarly robes. A dress shirt that's technically present but largely unbuttoned, revealing a torso that belongs on someone who fights dragons rather than studies them.

He's not bulky—that would be too simple.He's lean muscle drawn with artist's precision, every line deliberate, every curve functional. Scars mark the skin in patterns that speak of battles survived, but they only enhance rather than detract.

And the tattoos.

They cover his chest and arms in intricate patterns that move slightly when observed—draconic script that rewrites itself, images of dragons that shift positions, symbols of royalty that pulse with their own light. They mark him as more than scholar, more than dragon.

They mark him as heir to something ancient and powerful.

"How the hell did you become a sexy dragon beast?"

The words escape before I can stop them, the brain-to-mouth filter completely offline in the face of this transformation.

He rolls his eyes, but there's amusement in the gesture.

"I technically don't age," he explains with the particular patience of someone who's had this conversation before. "This is how I looked when I ascended into my royal role long ago."

Royal role. Dragon royalty standing in my doorway, wearing leather and danger like casual Tuesday.

Fuck…I want a taste…

Wait… goodness, I’m clearly thirsty for thinking this way!

"I only aged myself for the comfort of everyone around me," he continues. "This is my natural state. It's easier to be in my'older' form because there are fewer questions and I don't stand out."

I huff, indignation mixing with lingering shock.

"No shit. Thank all the gods and goddesses, or else you'd take away all the women shifters at the opposite academy!"

The complaint is ridiculous given our circumstances, but the thought of him walking around looking like this, where others could see, could want, could try to claim?—

He smirks, and the expression is entirely different on this face.