Page 37 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)

"I know the circumstances I've entered with each one. But I don't regret any of them."

The truth of it surprises me. Despite the complications, the shared consciousness with Gabriel, the constant danger, I don't regret the connections we've forged.

"And truthfully, it would be odd to have you not involved in whatever this is."

Mortimer has been a constant guide when we're lost, knowledge when we're ignorant, and calm when everything else is chaos. The thought of not having him formally connected to the rest of us feels wrong.

"Though I've never dated someone centuries old, so I'm clearly inexperienced."

The attempt at levity falls flat even in my own mind. But I feel his amusement anyway, warm like hearthfire despite the mental distance.

"Very well. Prepare yourself."

The warning, which I can’t deny makes the pits of my stomach flip with unexpected need and flutters, is all I get before reality ripples in front of me.

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 and dilate 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.

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 contract to 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.

No danger of that.

I drink deeply, probably more than my fair share, but his blood is addictive in ways human or even vampire blood never is. Each swallow brings heat that has nothing to do with temperature, pleasure that has nothing to do with simple feeding.

"Easy," he murmurs, voice rough with something that's not quite pain. "You need to leave me with some blood."

The reminder penetrates the haze of feeding.

I force myself to slow, to savor rather than devour. My fangs retract carefully, tongue swiping across the wounds to seal them—and to taste the last drops of blood that well up.

I barely have time to lift my head before his mouth crashes into mine.

The kiss is nothing like the scholarly Mortimer would deliver.

This is dragon kissing— possessive, overwhelming, designed to claim rather than seduce. His tongue sweeps past my lips without asking permission, tasting his own blood in my mouth with a sound that's pure possessive satisfaction.

I respond with equal fervor, hands fisting in his hair— when did the ponytail come undone —pulling him closer like proximity could solve the problem of physics keeping us separate.

We move without conscious thought, bodies seeking surface to press against. My back hits the wall—or maybe his does—or maybe we're both against walls that exist in the same space despite being different walls.

Dimensional collapse makes everything possible and nothing certain.

I climb him like a tree.

The description is inelegant but accurate. My legs wrap around his waist, his hands supporting me with strength that makes his lean frame deceptive. He might look slim, but there's power there, dragon strength that could probably bench press buildings if necessary.

He presses me against the wall—definitely wall this time—and the kiss deepens into something that threatens to incinerate higher thought entirely.

His fire doesn't stay hidden now.

I can taste it on his tongue, feel it in his skin, see it dancing behind his eyes when we break for unnecessary air. This is Mortimer unrestrained—centuries of power and knowledge focused into this moment, this kiss, this claim we're making on each other.

My hands map the territory revealed by his unbuttoned shirt, tracing tattoos that pulse with heat at my touch.

Each design tells a story—battles won, knowledge gained, power inherited, and earned.

The dragon script rewrites itself as I read it, showing different truths depending on the angle of observation.

He makes a sound when my nails drag down his chest—not pain but encouragement. His own hands are busy, one tangled in my hair while the other grips my hip with possession that will definitely leave bruises.

Good.

I want bruises. Want evidence of this moment that can't be dismissed as a dimensional hallucination or even a desperate, horny dream.

The kiss breaks when oxygen becomes non-negotiable, both of us gasping like we've run miles rather than made out like teenagers with supernatural powers.

"Can we—" he starts, then stops, seeming to realize what he's asking.

We're both breathless. His shirt is more off than on, my jacket discarded somewhere between the wall and wherever we started, floating like everything else but us.

His hair is completely loose now, silver-white strands framing his face in ways that make him look wild, untamed, nothing like the careful scholar who's guided us through trials.

The question hangs between us — can we take this further?