Page 41 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)

The Scholar's Guidance

~GWENIEVERE~

T he aftermath of our connection leaves the air charged with more than just residual magic.

I can feel the bond settling into place—not violent like with Cassius, not desperate like with Atticus, not accidental like with Nikolai.

This is deliberate, chosen, a connection forged through desire rather than necessity.

Mortimer stands by the floating window, his appearance still devastatingly different from the scholarly elder I'd grown accustomed to.

The leather pants sit low on his hips, his shirt barely buttoned, silver-white hair falling loose around shoulders that speak of battles won through strength rather than strategy alone.

"This floating space outside," he says, gesturing toward the impossible architecture beyond my door, "is definitely some sort of mass library."

His voice carries the particular certainty of someone who recognizes home even when it's been rearranged into a nightmare.

"A library?" I move to stand beside him, careful not to touch. The new bond makes proximity dangerous—every accidental brush of skin threatens to reignite what we just barely managed to contain. "How can you tell?"

He points to the floating books, the way they move with purpose rather than randomness.

"See how they reorganize themselves? That's not chaos—that's cataloging. The Academy's knowledge is trying to maintain order even through dimensional collapse."

The observation makes me look at the space differently. Not random floating rooms but sections of an impossible library, each one containing different categories of knowledge that the Academy has accumulated over centuries.

"It could hold the information we need to escape this labyrinth," he continues, dragon eyes tracking patterns I can't see. "Could potentially hold magical artifacts that were stored for safekeeping or study."

"How do you know all this?"

The question emerges with genuine curiosity. Even for someone who's lived centuries, this seems like specific knowledge about impossible situations.

His smile is different on this younger face—less paternal, more mysterious.

"I'm a scholar, after all. I've spent centuries in various libraries, learning their hidden secrets."

He turns from the window, those golden eyes holding depths that speak of knowledge accumulated across lifespans I can barely imagine.

"Libraries aren't just repositories of books. They're living things, especially magical ones. They have personalities, preferences, and protective instincts. Learn to listen, and they'll tell you their secrets. Learn to ask properly, and they'll share their treasures."

The way he speaks about libraries makes them sound like dragons to be courted rather than buildings to be entered.

"I've thrived on their hidden knowledge, the artifacts they keep for those wise enough to listen to the hints they whisper."

"They whisper?"

He nods, moving closer with that predatory grace that makes me hyperaware of every inch between us.

"Always. In the rustle of pages, the creak of shelves, the particular silence that falls when you're close to what you seek. This library—" he gestures to the chaos beyond, "—is screaming. It wants to be whole again, wants someone to understand its organization, to use it properly."

The passion in his voice when discussing knowledge is oddly attractive. This is Mortimer in his element—not just surviving trials but understanding them, parsing meaning from chaos.

"I can guide you to the closest room," he says, but something in his expression shifts to reluctance. "But if I'm going to guide you telepathically, I can't necessarily 'go' with you."

The limitation makes sense even as it disappoints. Mental energy devoted to maintaining psychic connection means less available for physical manifestation. He can be in my head or at my side, but not both.

"I understand."

The acceptance comes easier than expected.

This feels like purpose, like the reason we're separated—not punishment but puzzle.

"This could potentially be a trial in itself, where I have to retrieve each of our comrades."

Mortimer nods, approval warming his expression.

"Zeke mentioned something similar when I reached him. Each room isn't just physical space—it's psychological. We're each trapped in reflections of our own mental states, our fears, our desires."

"Which is why you could manifest here," I realize. "Because my mental state wanted connection, wanted to not be alone."

"Precisely." He moves closer still, close enough that I can feel heat radiating from his skin—literal heat, dragon fire barely contained in human form. "Zeke believes he should be the last one we reach."

"Why?"

"He's the guide. His trial will be about more than personal demons—it will be about understanding the labyrinth itself. He'll have untapped insight on how to escape, but only after everyone else has been gathered."

The logic is sound if frustrating.

Save the key for last, after collecting all the locks it needs to open.

"Then I should start."

I move to fix my uniform, straightening clothes that got disheveled during our.

.. activities. The leather feels different against my skin now—warmer, as if responding to the dragon blood running through my veins.

The white shirt practically glows against the dark material, and when I check the mirror, my reflection looks stronger.

Powerful.

Fed.

"I feel rejuvenated," I admit, rolling my shoulders experimentally. "That blood draw gave me more than just sustenance."

"Dragon blood tends to do that," he says with amusement that makes me want to kiss him again. "Especially given willingly. Especially during..."

He trails off, but we both know what he means.

Blood taken during passion carries different properties than blood taken in battle. One builds connection, the other builds immunity.

"I feel like I could breathe fire."

The joke comes out more serious than intended, because part of me wonders if it's actually possible now.

Mortimer's expression shifts to something between amusement and warning.

"You could test that theory, but try not to do it near anyone's cock."

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.

"I'll be in your mind," he promises. "Guiding when I can, silent when you need to focus. Trust your instincts—they're stronger now, enhanced by our bond."

I nod, hand on the door handle, taking a moment to center myself.

When I open it, the impossible library sprawls before me, more intimidating now that I understand what it represents. Not just collapsed space but collapsed knowledge, centuries of learning scattered and scrambled, trying desperately to reorganize itself into something useful.

The first step out of my room is the hardest.