Page 97 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

Not scholarly amusement but lethal in nature, that only makes my core quiver.

He leans in, closing the distance between us with predatory grace.

"Would you be jealous?"

The question is delivered with perfect casualness, but his eyes track my reaction with dragon intensity.

Heat floods my cheeks, but I refuse to back down; the sudden challenge only hyping my confidence up as I have every intention of standing my ground.

Because I’m that type of bitch…

Instead, I grab his tie—when did he acquire a tie?—and pull sharply. He comes willingly, letting me maneuver him until our bodies are inches apart, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin.

"Yes," I admit, voice dropping to something that's almost a growl. "I'd be very jealous."

My free hand rises to his face, thumb tracing his bottom lip with deliberate slowness.

"Because I really don't like sharing what's mine."

I tug on that bottom lip, watching his eyes shift from golden to something closer to molten metal. The vertical pupils contractto thin lines, and a sound escapes him that's more dragon than man—low, warning, dangerous.

"Your eyes are red,little Heiress," he observes, voice carrying harmonics that shouldn't exist in a shifter’s throat. The nickname of little Heiress only does the opposite of taming me — my senses only go insane with desire. "Are you thirsty?"

The question is practical, but the way he asks it—with that particular combination of concern and invitation—makes my fangs ache with more than hunger.

I lick my lips slowly, deliberately, watching him track the movement with those impossible eyes.

"Maybe," I admit, then let calculation enter my expression. "But where should I bite you so no one can go and take you away from me?"

The question should be ridiculous.

We're trapped in a dimensional labyrinth, separated from our companions, facing who knows what trials. This is not the time for marking territory or staking claims.

Hell, we shouldn’t even think of the idea of pushing this bond “the whole way”…

But the way he looks at me suggests he disagrees with that assessment.

Or logical circumstances…

His smirk deepens, and he leans even closer, until his breath ghosts across my ear.

"You could give me a hickey if you want."

The suggestion is so unexpected from scholarly Mortimer that I laugh, the sound emerging as something between amusement and hunger. When I pull back enough to see his face, I know my fangs are fully extended, visible in a grin that's more predator than person.

"Why not right here?"

I don't give him time to respond.

My fangs sink into the junction where neck meets shoulder, piercing through fabric and skin with the ease of weapons designed for exactly this purpose. The taste of his blood?—

Oh.

Dragon blood is different. Not just the flavor, though that's extraordinary—like fire given liquid form, like power distilled into something I can swallow. It's the sensation of it, the way it lights up every nerve ending with pleasure that borders on overwhelming.

I moan against his skin, the sound muffled but unmistakable.

His response is immediate—hands sliding down my back, not pushing away but pulling closer. One hand tangles in my hair while the other presses between my shoulder blades, holding me against him like he's afraid I might stop.