His arms wrap around my transformed form with strength that suggests he could easily refuse my demands if he chose to.
He doesn't choose to.
His expression says everything his voice doesn't as he looks at me with eyes that promise this conversation isn't over—that there will bediscussionsabout the threat I just issued, about the command I just gave, about the particular way I leveraged our intimacy to achieve compliance.
Then he sets me down.
And silently walks away toward whatever exit leads out of this destroyed recovery station.
Atticus sighs from his floating position.
"See," the blood mage observes, tone carrying the particular satisfaction of someone who has witnessed drama they won't have to personally navigate. "I'd never want to be in the dog house."
Zeke glances up from his book—actually acknowledging something other than the text for the first time since this confrontation began.
"You were the one who started fighting with the Prince to begin with," he points out, voice carrying mild accusation that makes Atticus's expression shift into alarm.
I turn my attention toward the blood mage, eyebrow arching with implicit question about whatever he apparently initiated before I emerged from the cocoon.
Atticus groans.
"FUCK, Zeke!" he protests, crimson energy flickering with what might be embarrassment, might be frustration, might be the particular desperation of someone who has been thrown under a bus by an ally. "Don't set me up for fucking failure!"
Zeke shrugs, returning his attention to his book with the particular disinterest of someone who feels no obligation to protect others from the consequences of their actions.
"I think you forgot we go to the Academy of theWicked," he observes, turning a page with casual attention. "It ain't fair."
The exchange would be amusing under other circumstances.
Right now, I have more pressing concerns.
I watch Cassius's retreating form until it disappears through whatever door leads out of this space, trusting that his silence means compliance even if his expression promised future confrontation. Damien needs help. Whatever triggered his hellhound transformation, whatever pushed him past the control he's maintained since I've known him, he's currently running through the Academy in a state that could prove dangerous for everyone—himself included.
I turn back to the remaining bond mates—those still floating, those still dealing with the aftermath of whatever chaos unfolded before my emergence.
My eyes find Nikolai among the suspended figures.
"Are you okay?"
The question emerges with genuine concern, remembering the emotional devastation we shared in the cocoon, the tears he shed, the vulnerability that preceded the magic he worked to dissolve our sanctuary.
He nods, the motion slightly awkward given his continued floating.
"I'm fine for now," he assures me, the words carrying weight that suggestsfor nowis the operative phrase.
Good enough.
"Where's Professor Eternalis?"
The question addresses whoever has information, my attention scanning the destroyed space for any sign of the being who has guided us through three years of Academy trials.
Mortimer answers from his floating position, draconic features still carrying frustration but now tempered with something approaching patience.
"Outside," he provides. "Probably making sure Damien doesn't go on a destruction spree. Not like there's anything here aside from this recovery station."
The explanation makes sense—someone needed to monitor the situation while the others apparently descended into chaos responding to Koishii's provocations.
I nod, accepting the information while adding it to the mental map I'm building of our current circumstances.
