9. A Wicked Entrance
9
A WICKED ENTRANCE
~GWENIVERE~
" J eez, Cassius. What have I said about leaving the window open?"
My voice comes out deep and rich, the masculine timbre settling perfectly in my throat. I can feel my magic thrumming through me, the glamour wrapping around me like a second skin.
It's flawless – more solid than ever before, powered by the pure adrenaline of confrontation coursing through my veins.
These princes are probably royal douches, but this dude sounds like a bigger douche.
Every cell in my body sings with anticipation. There's something deliciously satisfying about the way testosterone amplifies my natural inclination for chaos.
Or I could be feeling like a cocky asshole.
Lord Bartholomew whirls around, his face contorting with indignant fury. His eyes rake over my uniform, taking in every detail with suspicious intensity before his eyes lock on mine that doesn’t back down from the penalizing intent in their depths.
"Who the hell are you?” he seethes. “I don't recall seeing your name on any registry."
I offer a casual shrug, letting an easy smile play across my lips. I’m positive my assertiveness matched with my ‘don’t give a fuck’ vibe is grinding all his gears right now.
"Gabriel Hawthorne, at your service."
The name rolls off my tongue smooth as silk, a perfect blend of power and nobility that matches the confidence in my stance.
"I've only just arrived, you see. Couldn't help but seek out my dear companion the moment I got here."
My gaze shifts to Cassius, injecting years of longing into my expression.
Have no clue what the school stance is when it comes to male-to-male love, but guess I’m rolling with it.
"It feels like centuries since I've seen you with my own eyes, old friend. But duty calls, doesn't it? While you were here being the faithful Wicked Academy prodigy, I had to complete my ongoing training and face those vigorous challenges." I gesture dramatically at my chest. "All to prove myself worthy of entering these ruthless walls."
The good thing I’m realizing when it comes to Cassius is how he can maintain such an emotionless demeanor that works perfectly in situations like this.
If you can’t read him like an open book, you can’t confirm whether I’m bullshitting or not.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I strike a pose that practically drips with cocky self-assurance.
"And look, I survived without so much as a wrinkle in this rather nice uniform." My fingers brush over the impeccable fabric, appreciating its quality with genuine admiration. "Though I'm fairly certain Cassius insisted on only the finest materials for my tailored piece."
I turn to Nikolai, arching an eyebrow playfully.
"The Fae always have access to the best fabrics, yes? This feels like it was woven from pure luxury."
Nikolai's head moves in a slow nod, though he's doing a rather poor job of hiding his shock. His eyes are slightly wider than usual, and I can practically see the gears turning in his head as he tries to process my sudden appearance.
The tension in the room has shifted, morphing from oppressive to something more akin to confused anticipation. I can feel Lord Bartholomew's gaze boring into me, trying to detect any flaw in my presentation, any crack in my facade.
But there won't be any.
This is what I do best – create chaos with absolute confidence, wrapping myself in layers of audacity so thick that people forget to question the impossibility of my existence.
"My sincerest apologies for the tardiness," I continue, running a hand through my hair with calculated casualness. "The time shift between realms proved more...challenging than anticipated. Add in those delightful entry trials, and well – this prestigious institution certainly knows how to keep one humble."
I’m thankful I’d done a bit of research regarding the initial entry for solo individuals that has to be conducted first before you’ll even get a shot onto Wicked Academy soil. It doesn’t include the madness of challenges you’re going to face with your selected group upon official attendance, but I guess that wouldn’t matter in my case.
I’m just being a distraction and I’m sure the guys will let me off the hook and say they don’t need some unworthy royal individual among their prodigy group.
Then I can be on my way, back to Elena’s bedside until I can think of a counterplan to get the Chalice.
I flash a knowing smile, letting it carry just the right blend of charm and self-deprecation.
"I did stop by the office to inform them of my eventual return for proper registration. But naturally, I had to see my fellow royals first." My eyes scan the group meaningfully. "Just in case there were any pressing matters requiring my immediate attention due to my late arrival."
Pausing for dramatic effect, I glance between Damien, Nikolai, and Cassius.
"Speaking of which, is there anything that needs my utmost attention? Or can I return to my thoroughly enjoyable pastime of flirting with the female scorekeepers through their computer screens?"
Lord Bartholomew's expression tightens at the mention of females, but I press on, feigning obliviousness to his growing irritation.
If I was an “imposter” I shouldn’t know about this tidbit. Lucky for me, I make sure my research is extremely detailed before diving into unknown territory.
Or in this case, an unpredictable academic institution of merciless psychotic paranormal elites with shitty attitudes and overflowing male dominance.
"Which, I must say, is a fascinating approach. Wicked Academy may be known for its strictly male population, but at least they've had the wisdom to employ women as bookkeepers." I tap my chin thoughtfully. "That has to be related to our male ineptitude at maintaining proper records, wouldn't you agree?"
The reactions around the room are a study in contrasts.
Cassius maintains his usual stoic silence, though I swear I catch a flicker of something in those silver eyes.
Nikolai looks like he's watching a particularly complex chess match where all the pieces have suddenly started moving on their own.
Damien's scowl deepens with each word as if my very existence has become a personal affront to his sensibilities.
It's Mortimer who breaks first, a low chuckle escaping him.
"Indeed," he says, amusement clear in his voice. "After numerous...incidents involving the organizational attempts of twenty-five thousand male students, it was deemed prudent to incorporate female involvement in a more 'distant' format. One that wouldn't result in any premature loss of life."
"Brilliant thinking," I declare, nodding sagely. "Perhaps this will help dispel those nasty rumors about Wicked Academy being sexist pricks in the institutional department."
Lord Bartholomew's face flushes an interesting shade of purple.
"Who dares spread such slander?"
I shrug, the gesture deliberately casual.
"What? You don't follow the daily gossip surrounding Wicked Academy?" Arching an eyebrow, I give him a look that borders on pitying. "As an administrator, which I'm assuming from your rather unwelcome presence, shouldn't you keep up with the 'times'?"
The temperature in the room drops several degrees as Lord Bartholomew processes my words. I can practically see the veins throbbing in his temples.
"Of course," I add quickly, though my tone suggests anything but contrition, "my sincerest apologies for making assumptions. How terribly presumptuous of me."
The words drip with such perfectly crafted insincerity that I catch Mortimer hiding another smile behind his hand. Even Damien's scowl has shifted slightly, taking on an edge of reluctant appreciation for the sheer audacity of my performance.
Lord Bartholomew's magic ripples through the air – a clear warning, but I find myself distinctly unimpressed. After facing down death itself in the form of Cassius's shadows, this display feels like a child throwing a tantrum.
My own magic hums beneath my skin, ready to respond if needed, but I keep my expression pleasantly neutral. There's something deeply satisfying about watching this man's carefully constructed authority crumble in the face of simple, relentless irreverence.
The uniform feels like armor, each perfectly tailored seam reinforcing my right to stand here, challenging this man's assumptions and authority with nothing but wit and audacity.
The mark on my neck pulses faintly as if appreciating the chaos I'm sowing.
This is what I do best – create such perfectly reasonable disorder that no one stops to question how impossible my presence should be. Every word, and every gesture is calculated to draw attention away from the fundamental impossibility of my existence and toward the immediate drama I'm creating.
And judging by the varying expressions around me, it's working beautifully.
Many believe to survive Wicked Academy, it’s all flashes of power and might, but I know better. It’s about turning the tables in your favor in any situation. The faster and smoother the transition is, the longer you’ll last against those who think they’re supreme in this environment where showing off is second nature and using your mind is…not an essential skill.
Taking a glance at my apparent “comrades” I can see they’re letting me go along with my intuitive plan.
Nikolai has recovered enough to play along, though his eyes still hold questions. Damien's hostility has evolved into something more like begrudging interest. Cassius remains unreadable, but there's a tension in his shoulders that suggests he's ready to act if needed.
And Mortimer... Well, Mortimer looks like he's watching the most entertaining performance he's seen in centuries.
Good.
The only thing that matters is derailing Lord Bartholomew's power play and buying these princes the time they need.
Lord Bartholomew straightens his shoulders, clearly trying to regain control of the situation.
"Well, since Gabriel is present, I can at least confirm your unit's participation in today's trials. They begin in one hour."
"Trials?" I slide my hands into my pockets, creating an air of casual indifference. "If that's what my friends wish, I suppose I could entertain these...challenges." A deliberate pause. "Though should I register before or after? Wouldn't want to break any precious protocols."
Something dark flashes in Lord Bartholomew's eyes.
He steps forward, closing the distance between us until I can smell the sour notes of his breath.
"You won't last a day in this academy with that barbaric attitude of yours, boy. Thinking you're better than everyone else..."
His voice drops to a menacing whisper, though in a room full of supernatural beings with enhanced hearing, the gesture is purely theatrical.
"I've seen plenty of younglings like you. Those with attitudes before their superiors..." His lips curl into a cruel smile and the depths of his voice leak of power, almost intentionally. "They all quake and cower in defeat when they're seconds from death."
As if that’s supposed to frighten me.
"You won't even survive the challenges," he continues, venom dripping from every word. "Not with how pitifully weak you are."
I let out a dramatic sigh, tilting my head as if considering a particularly boring puzzle.
"You know, I really don't like causing scenes. But..." My lips curve into a mischievous smile as I turn to look at Cassius. "Perhaps I could be a little...troublesome? With permission, of course."
Nikolai and Damien frown, clearly uncertain about where this is going. Mortimer clears his throat.
"As long as you don't intend to physically strike Lord Bartholomew..."
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, genuine amusement mixing with anticipation.
"Violence? Please. I'd never stoop so low." My eyes remain locked with Cassius's, something unspoken passing between us. "I have far more interesting methods."
To everyone's surprise – perhaps even my own – Cassius gives a slight nod of approval. The simple gesture carries weight like a king granting permission for a particularly risky gambit.
Lord Bartholomew's mocking laugh cuts through the moment.
"Permission? From the Duskwalker Prince?" He sneers, poison filling his next words. "What could that emotionless being possibly offer? Don’t get me started with those hideous creatures that roam around like they own the shadows nature blessed us with. They're nothing but walking corpses, incapable of real relationships. Probably don't even have hearts to experience love."
The temperature in the room drops sharply as his words hang in the air. Even Damien, who's shown nothing but hostility toward me, looks disgusted by the blatant prejudice that he’s witnessed.
I feel the mark on my neck pulse once, sharp and clear, responding to the insult against its master. My magic surges beneath my skin, no longer playful but carrying an edge of genuine anger.
The runes along my wrist begin to glow faintly, responding to my rising emotions. Only, the dark red in the shade, imitating an odd tainted aura of power, sends goosebumps down my own arms at their revelation.
Cassius's face remains impassive, but I catch the way his shadows writhe with barely contained fury. The temperature drops further as his power leaks into the air, a reminder of exactly why Duskwalkers are feared throughout the realms.
But it's not just about defending Cassius's honor – though that certainly adds fuel to my fire. It's about standing up to this man who thinks he can crush spirits with cruel words and arbitrary power.
Who believes he can judge the capacity for love in creatures he clearly doesn't understand? Who hasn't learned that the most dangerous moments often come wrapped in smiles.
No. He doesn’t want to understand, for he wouldn’t be worthy of such…privilege.
The mark on my neck thrums with energy, as if agreeing with my assessment. Whatever this bond between Cassius and I might be, it clearly takes offense to anyone questioning a Duskwalker's capacity for feeling.
A defiant smirk curves my lips as I spin on one foot, moving with deliberate grace until I'm well within Lord Bartholomew's personal space.
"You know what I really can't stand?" I muse, as if sharing a casual observation. "People who speak ill of others without knowing their facts."
His nostrils flare at my proximity, but I continue before he can interject.
"See, due to my slight inability to tolerate bullshit, matched with what many would call an intolerable personality, I didn't have many friends as a child." I shrug, the gesture deliberately casual. "So, I spent my time in the depths of libraries, absolutely devouring the lengthy encyclopedias about paranormal creatures, hybrids, and everything else with a beating heart in our tainted, merciless world."
The runes on my wrist pulse darker, their crimson glow casting eerie shadows across Lord Bartholomew's increasingly uncomfortable face.
"And do you know what I learned about Duskwalkers? They're absolutely fascinating creatures of darkness, with abilities that would make lesser beings weep with envy."
My voice takes on a lecturer's tone, precise and measured.
"They possess an innate connection to both death and shadow magic. A combination that no other paranormal race can claim. Their ability to traverse the void between realms, to command spirits and shadows alike, to exist in perfect harmony with beings of pure darkness..." I pause, letting each point land with careful precision. "But here's the truly magnificent part."
Leaning closer, I lower my voice to an intimate whisper.
"Royal Duskwalkers, particularly princes, have the capacity to ascend to true Lord status. Not the kind you're throwing around like cheap perfume," my eyes flick dismissively over his form, "but genuine Lords of Darkness. The kind that would have Duskwalkers across all realms bowing in genuine reverence."
A theatrical pause.
"Wouldn't that be something to witness, Lord Bartholomew?"
His face contorts with rage.
"I do not need nor want your unrequested lecture, you impertinent fool. You're wasting my valuable time."
A laugh escapes me, light and mocking.
"Ah, my sincerest apologies. Please, feel free to leave if I'm such a waste of your precious time."
Lord Bartholomew turns sharply to exit – or tries to.
His body remains frozen in place, realization dawning in his widening eyes before they narrow accusingly in my direction.
I meet his glare with unwavering intensity, feeling the power thrumming through my veins. The mark on my neck burns with cold fire, and I can feel Cassius's shadows responding to my magic, weaving together in an intricate dance of power that even I don't fully understand.
But understanding isn't always necessary for victory.
The runes along my wrist have darkened to the color of fresh blood, their glow pulsing in perfect harmony with my heartbeat. They paint the air between us with crimson light, a physical manifestation of the power game we're playing.
And judging by the growing alarm in Lord Bartholomew's eyes, he's beginning to realize he might have chosen the wrong opponent.
I take a deep inhale, letting it out slow and measured. My eyes drift closed, and for a moment, everything feels deceptively peaceful. The atmosphere hangs heavy with tension, but it's contained – like a storm waiting to break.
Then I feel it.
The exact moment when the energies around us crack, like fine crystal shattering under precisely applied pressure. The tension surges, becoming almost unbearable in its intensity. I don't need to open my eyes to know everyone feels it – the way my magic rises to the surface, no longer content to simmer beneath my skin.
Power pulses outward in waves, each one stronger than the last. It mimics gravity itself, affecting everything within its reach like an invisible tide. I can sense how it impacts the others too – Damien, Nikolai, Cassius, even Mortimer.
It's an unfortunate necessity, this small discomfort I'm causing them.
But some things require sacrifice.
This part of me – this raw, primal force I've kept carefully locked away – hasn't been free in a very long time. For good reason. The last time I let it loose... well, there's a reason certain territories still bear the scars.
My eyes open just slightly, and I can't help the proud smile that forms as I feel the radiant energy pulsing behind them.
The intensity would normally make my eyes water, but now it feels natural.
Like slipping into a favorite coat you'd forgotten you owned.
Lord Bartholomew's struggles against the gravitational force are delightful to watch. His body fights against the inexorable pull, even as it draws him downward. My lips curve higher, transforming into something darker – a smile that belongs more to predator than prey.
Rolling my shoulders, I let out a satisfied groan as my neck cracked. The sound echoes in the pressurized air.
"Man," I drawl, "it's getting rather hot in here, isn't it?" My fingers tap against my thigh in a lazy rhythm. "Makes me want to step out for some fresh air. Maybe even have a smoke, though I try to limit those these days."
Lord Bartholomew's legs begin to shake with the effort of remaining upright.
"It's really just an occasional luxury," I continue conversationally. "Have to be careful with that, you know? The benzene, carbon monoxide, hydrogen cyanide…they don't play nice with low blood reserves." A thoughtful pause. "And nobody wants to deal with an unhinged vampire. We get these absolutely ridiculous god complexes, and start thinking we're invincible."
The mark on my neck pulses in time with my power, creating patterns of energy that dance through the air like heat waves. The runes along my wrist have darkened to nearly black, their glow intense enough to cast shadows.
A particularly strong pulse of power sends Lord Bartholomew's knees buckling.
He crashes to the floor, his entire frame trembling as he fights against the weight of my magic. Sweat beads on his forehead, and his breath comes in short, sharp gasps.
The sight sends a thrill of satisfaction through me. My power continues to build, layer upon layer, like compounding pressure at the bottom of an ocean. Each wave brings with it memories of why I sealed this part of myself away:
The way buildings would crumble under the sheer force of my will.
How the very air would become too heavy to breathe.
The ease with which I could bring the mightiest beings to their knees.
It had been too much – tempting — too easy to lose myself in that intoxicating sense of absolute control. So I'd locked it away, buried it beneath layers of more manageable magic.
To keep me invisible as the weakling sister wishing for her sister to get better…
But now, watching Lord Bartholomew struggle against forces he can't possibly comprehend, I remember why this power exists. Not just for destruction or dominance, but for protection.
For standing against those who would abuse their authority, who would demean and diminish others simply because they can.
The gravitational field pulses stronger, and I catch glimpses of how it affects the others. Damien braces himself against a wall, his vampire strength barely keeping him upright. Nikolai's Fae magic shimmers around him like a protective shield, though I can see the strain on his face.
Even Mortimer seems affected, though he bears it with the stoic acceptance of one who's seen far worse.
Only Cassius appears relatively unmoved, his shadows dancing in patterns that almost seem to complement my power rather than fight it. The mark on my neck burns colder, and I swear I can feel his energy intertwining with mine, knitting something entirely new.
Something wicked.
Drawing strength from Cassius's subtle support, I release a dark chuckle before leaning down to whisper in Lord Bartholomew's ear. Though quiet, my words carry clearly through the pressurized air.
"And now look what has transpired. A man who belittles others, brought to his knees before a mere 'youngling' like me. Quite the predicament, wouldn't you agree?"
His attempts to speak come out as muffled sounds, and I catch the spike of fear in his eyes.
Another slow exhale escapes me as I continue.
"My father burned bridges with those who defied him. My mother commanded the dead and the souls of those who threatened her. Imagine what their combination might be capable of when provoked."
The panic blooming in Lord Bartholomew's eyes only encourages the sinister smile spreading across my face.
"You know nothing about me, Lord B. Be thankful for that, as this is merely a taste of what awaits those who think they can strut through these halls playing at being kings."
A laugh escapes me then, carrying notes of carefully controlled chaos.
"Consider yourself fortunate I'm in good spirits today, having reunited with my companion and his associates. Being among royalty can be daunting, but it serves as a reminder that I too come from a bloodline of considerable power. ” I purposely let my final words pulse with magic that further project just how much “magic” I have at my disposal.
The level of excess that isn’t contributing to his current debilitating stillness.
I’ve revealed a bit too much, but fuck it. I don’t give a damn.
"And yet here I am, in an oddly good mood." I lean back, fully opening my eyes to let Lord Bartholomew see the deep crimson that has consumed my irises.
At my full height of 6'3", I stand level with Damien and Cassius, while Nikolai and Mortimer tower just slightly taller at 6'5".
"My kind has a particular fondness for grudges, and we always collect our debts. But since it's the first day of school..." I lift my hand with deliberate slowness, making sure his gaze follows my fingers before snapping them sharply.
The atmosphere clears instantly, the gravitational weight vanishing as if it never existed.
Lord Bartholomew gasps desperately for air, sweat suddenly pouring from him as if my power had been holding back a flood.
"Let this be the first and last time you disrespect my wonderfully mundane personality," I say pleasantly. "Or we'll replay this scene, next time with an audience.” I allow my hand to shoo him away. “You can go now."
He grits his teeth, mouth opening to protest, but I cut him off coldly.
"I wasn't asking."
His mouth snaps shut.
He rises slowly, throws one final glare around the room, and storms out. The door slams behind him with a satisfying crash.
The following silence is thick enough to cut, but I'm already fishing in my pocket for the blood packet Cassius provided.
"Stupid mother fucker thinking he can talk shit about my Duskwalker," I snarl, feeling the nagging need to down the pack of blood and maybe go for a walk before this “trial” starts. "I should throw him off a?—"
A cloud of smoke interrupts my rant. I look up to find Grim hovering inches from my face, his skull tilted in what appears to be fascination.
"Oh. Hey Grim," I say casually, my voice still deep from tapping into my vampire traits. Matched with my already male alter-ego, I sound like a guy who just got hit with puberty. "Give me a second to down this. Unlocking those powers always messes with me."
I bite into the packet, take a few sips, and immediately regret my life choices. Forcing myself to swallow to avoid staining the uniform, I can't help the grimace that follows.
"What is this blood? It tastes like it's been aging since the dawn of time!"
I can’t help but slowly look to the source of my current discomfort; Cassius frowns slightly.
"It's from this morning's sunrise."
Oh…
I’m not sure how I feel about drinking some random innocent girl’s blood who was probably trying to get out of the school’s possession alive, but the lingering aftertaste of the metallic liquid is driving my tastebuds crazy.
"It tastes like someone preserved a corpse for three millennia just to torture us," I whine, sticking out my tongue and inadvertently displaying my retracted fangs. "If the other packets are this bad, I might actually cry."
"Men don't cry," Cassius states matter-of-factly.
"Well this man is about to make history then," I retort, eyeing the blood packet with deep suspicion. "No way is this fresh blood. Nope. Seriously, where did you even get this? The ancient artifacts chamber's reject pile?"
I catch Damien's slight smirk and Nikolai's barely suppressed chuckle. Even Mortimer seems amused by my dramatic display.
Grim releases another puff of smoke, this one somehow manages to convey sympathy. I reach up to pat his skull affectionately.
"At least someone understands my suffering."
The mark on my neck pulses once, warm and reassuring, as my power settles back into its usual rhythm. The runes on my wrist fade from their intense crimson back to their normal state, though they still shimmer faintly beneath my skin.
Well then…what now?
Looking around at my strange new companions, I realize my random entrance doesn’t defeat the fact I may have just thrown myself into a tricky circumstance.
I just have to figure out how to maintain this charade through whatever trials await us…and hopefully, find some better tasting blood in the process.
The things I do for lust...and revenge... and possibly world-saving heroics.
Though, not necessarily in that order.
I huff, finally turning to face the four men watching me with varying degrees of shock, amusement, and in Damien's case, barely contained rage now that he deems me as some sort of enemy.
I mean…technically I am, but then again, I feel his vampire nerves are tingling with my presence, especially now that my vampire traits have oozed into the atmosphere.
I can already catch onto the shift in my scent, but I decide not to focus on it or else I’ll get so lost in the undertones that I’ll be distracted — as usual.
"So," I begin, crossing my arms over my chest, "I'm going to try these other blood packs and, I suppose, follow you lot to do these trials.”
I pause so I can emphasize my next point accordingly.
“Seeing as you did take care of me, despite putting me in this odd position to begin with because you couldn't handle a woman infiltrating your precious academy to steal a damn chalice."
"Are you going to keep using that against us?" Damien mutters, his jaw clenching visibly.
I level him with a look that could freeze hell.
"Yes. Over your dead body too, so shut the fuck up and change that damn tone when you're talking to the one that just saved your paranormal asses from doing the lovely outcast walk of shame down these halls like the royal bastards you are."
I’m coming to realize out of the three, Damien is the one who’s the most open book and short-tempered. Intriguing when he reminded me of an incubus when I’d dropped onto his bed and saw his naked glory…
Okay. Let’s not.
As a “male-in-training”, if I can even call it that, I don’t want to see or feel what it’s like to be “turned on”.
Let alone get hard with this dingaling hanging between my legs.
Grim releases another puff of smoke, his skull tilting in that now-familiar gesture of curiosity. I pause, looking up at him with a softer expression.
"Okay, except for you and Cassius. He's got a soft spot on me."
"How the fuck does he get off the hook?!" Damien snarls, fangs flashing in the morning light.
"He knows how to use his cock," I reply without missing a beat, enjoying the way Mortimer's mouth drops half-open and Nikolai seems to be fighting the hardest battle of his life not to burst out laughing.
I imagine Faes' laughter would be quite something to listen to – probably like wind chimes in a summer breeze.
Moving toward the bedroom, I deliberately avoid making eye contact with Cassius. I can picture his expression perfectly – that same unreadable mask, maybe with just the slightest quirk of an eyebrow that speaks volumes to those who know how to read it.
At the doorway, I pause.
"I guess I'll be Gabriel Hawthorne until we figure this shit out. So let's get these trials over with so I can understand what the fuck is happening between 'us.'"
The humming pulse of the mark on my neck has been very noticeable throughout this confrontation, so that means it has to have some sort of living life force of magic that connects us in some way.
I simply need to acknowledge what exactly this connection pertains to and the weight of such circumstances.
Do the trials and you'll be free to leave. Easy, Gwenivere. There's nothing to worry about.
But as I close the door behind me, I can't shake the feeling that nothing about this situation will be easy.
Life is already a bitch, so being in a space where being “wicked” is praised and celebrated? That’s already asking for trouble and mayhem.
The trials, the deception, the undeniable pull I feel toward a certain Duskwalker prince – it all feels like pieces of a puzzle I can't quite see clearly yet.
The male glamour sits comfortably on my skin now, almost natural, making me a tad more confident that I can keep this appearance at least long enough to get out of this place.
Until then, I have to play to these men’s tune — and not cross paths with Lord Bartholomew unless he wants my fangs deep in his throat and poison shooting into his veins to take him out of this side of our treacherous world.
One step at a time, Gwenivere. First, survive the trials, then figure out why destiny seems to be kicking me in the ass over a healing chalice.
It sounds easy enough the more I repeat it in my head.
The only thing I wonder is whether I'll survive long enough to regret it.