"Likerunas in he's in hellhound mode," he explains, the words arriving with casual delivery that contradicts their alarming content. "Running around like a manic demon spawn from the pits of Lucifer's hell."
Hellhound mode.
Damien is in hellhound mode.
Running around the Academy in his most dangerous form, apparently without control or restraint.
I gawk at the revelation.
Then my attention snaps to the one person I would have assumed would prevent such a scenario—the bond mate whose shadows should have been able to contain, should have been able to anchor, should have been able tohelpwhen Damien's nature overwhelmed his control.
Cassius feels my gaze.
His expression, visible now that his tendrils have brought me close enough to observe properly, carries defensiveness that suggests he knows exactly what I'm thinking.
"I was more concerned aboutyouthan him running around like a manic hellhound," he declares, the statement carrying challenge that borders on aggressive. "Bite me."
Bite me.
He's telling me to bite him.
While Damien is apparently losing control somewhere in the Academy and no one has done anything to help.
Anger flares.
Sharp and hot and carrying the particular intensity of someone whose protectiveness has been triggered by circumstances that demand immediate response.
The tendrils holding me seem to sense my mood shift because they bring me to Cassius in a flash—faster than he apparently expected, because he actuallyflincheswhen my transformed face appears inches from his void-dark eyes without warning.
I hiss.
The sound carries power that I didn't know I possessed—Fae authority bleeding through vampire instinct, the combinationproducing something that makes the air between us crackle with energy that demands obedience.
"Go. Fetch. Me. My. Vampire. Pureblood.Now."
Each word lands with emphasis that allows no argument, no deflection, no attempt to prioritize his preferences over my explicit command.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Cassius stares at me with eyes that carry shock—genuine shock, the particular reaction of someone who has never been addressed this way by someone they considertheirs.
I add fuel to whatever fire is building in his expression.
"Or you're never enjoying this pussy ever again."
The threat lands with the particular weight of promises that carry genuine consequences.
The reaction is immediate.
His shadow tendrilsscreech—a sound I've never heard from them before, something between alarm and distress that suggests they understood my words perfectly and find them absolutely unacceptable. The darkness that holds me trembles with what might be horror, might be protest, might be the particular desperation of eldritch appendages facing prospects they cannot bear.
Then they drop me.
The release is sudden—one moment supported, the next falling toward debris-covered floor with the particular acceleration that gravity provides when nothing interferes with its intentions.
Cassius catches me.
His reflexes respond even as his expression broadcasts clear annoyance at being put in this position—at having to rescue me from consequences thathisshadow tendrils created, at having to demonstrate care in the same moment he's been commanded to demonstrate obedience.
