26. Always Be On My Queen Of Spades Side
26
ALWAYS BE ON MY QUEEN OF SPADES SIDE
~GWENIVERE~
T he shower turns on with a harsh hiss.
I flinch as the cold water hits my burning flesh, the shock of it almost unbearable against my flushed skin.
But I know it has to be this way – jumping straight into hot water would only trigger a panic attack. The trauma of being held under runs too deep for that.
Still, knowing doesn't make it easier to stand here, letting the cold stream assault my skin. My body feels like a puppet with cut strings, lacking the will or strength to move forward.
The day's exhaustion hits me in full force, and I'm honestly surprised I'm still standing. The hunger gnaws at me, both physical and blood-thirst combining with emotional drainage to leave me wondering if I'll simply fade away before finding an escape from this nightmare.
A touch on my flesh makes me flinch, but then that familiar deep voice whispers.
"It's just me, my Queen of Spades."
The nickname triggers a cascade of memories.
How he'd always called me his Queen as if I were some royal being who'd wandered into his path by divine chance. It's strange that he still uses it, yet the sound makes my heart swell with emotion I thought I'd buried years ago.
He stands behind me, both of us naked but nothing sexual in the contact. His only focus is the sponge in his hand, already slathered with my favorite soap – a complex blend of lavender, lilies, vanilla, jasmine, and white musk that creates something uniquely comforting.
The scent of bergamot adds a citrusy note that somehow makes it all work together, creating the perfect aromatic escape.
He scrubs methodically, thoroughly, until my skin turns red from the attention. But he knows if he doesn't do this, I will. If he didn't scrub me almost violently, I'd stay here until I drew blood, trying to wash away memories that live beneath the skin.
Even though the physical stench is gone, it lingers in my mind like a ghost.
The migraine still pounds behind my eyes, and my muscles ache with tension that's only now beginning to release. It isn't until he's washing the last of the conditioner from my hair that everything hits at once.
The sobs come without warning, powerful enough to make my whole body shake. I cry with the kind of abandon that only comes when you've held yourself together for too long, when the facade finally cracks and everything you've been suppressing comes rushing out.
His arms wrap around me, so different from what I remember.
Gone is the soft, comforting pudge of youth, replaced by lean muscle and skin decorated with runes and tattoos that never graced his flesh before. His embrace feels cooler now, a vampire's touch rather than a human's warmth, but the commitment it conveys only makes me cry harder.
He turns me in his arms, letting me sob against his chest while shielding me from the shower's steady stream. I let it all pour out – three days of torment, the memories of Darius resurfacing, the fresh betrayals layered over old wounds.
Atticus listens without speaking, offering comfort through touch alone. He knows it's the only thing that really reaches me through the pain, even though it's its own kind of torture.
A double-edged sword.
Touch brings back memories of violence, of hands that meant to harm, yet somehow his embrace triggers healing I didn't know I still needed.
The water continues to rain down, washing away tears as fast as they fall. His skin is cool beneath my cheek, marked with symbols of power that tell the story of how far he's come from that chubby boy everyone underestimated.
But his heart beats the same rhythm it always has – steady, unwavering, dedicated to my protection above all else.
I cry until my throat is raw, until the sobs turn to hiccups and even those fade to trembling silence. Through it all, his arms never loosen, his presence never wavers. He remains my anchor in the storm, just as he was that night he found me broken but not destroyed.
The water begins to warm slightly, the temperature rising gradually enough not to trigger panic. He's always known exactly what I need, even when I don't know myself.
Even when I'm lost in the darkness of my own making.
Water streams down his chest, following the paths of his tattoos like rivers through a mystical landscape. Each mark represents power gained, abilities earned through whatever transformation turned him from victim to avenger.
Yet his touch remains gentle, his embrace secure without being confining. He's learned the delicate balance required to comfort someone whose trauma lives in their skin – how to hold without trapping, how to support without smothering.
The shower's steam rises around us like a protective cocoon, carrying the mixed scents of my soap into the air.
The familiar aroma helps ground me in the present, reminding me that I'm here, I'm safe, even if everything else feels like it's falling apart.
My Queen of Spades …
That's what I need to remember.
The Queen of Spades is the most powerful card in many games, yet often the most dangerous to hold.
Just like me.
I lean back, seeking the depths of those crimson eyes that peer into me without judgment or remorse.
"How did you know where I was?" I ask quietly.
"I tracked your energy the moment I felt you were in trouble," he admits.
The question of how he's even free hovers on my tongue, but instead I ask, "How did you blend in without being caught?"
I've always known Atticus was brilliant beyond his years, talented in ways others overlooked. What I loved most was his ability to use magic like me – not with the same power or range, but dark magic that could be amplified through training and dedication.
He cradles my face as the shower stream stops on its own, leaving us naked and drenched while gazing at each other. Instead of answering, he leans down to place a tender kiss on my cheek. His lips linger there, the touch saying more than words ever could, before he pulls back to meet my eyes again.
I let the sensation sink in, feeling like it holds the key to this mystery. Then everything clicks – the action, the feeling, both different yet fundamentally the same.
"Grim," I whisper, eyes widening as I remember the oversized glasses he wore before the shower, matching the ones that had sat on Mini Grim's tiny frame. "How...when...but the Duskreaper pet?—"
"Can only be summoned, not controlled by its own will," he reveals, "unless one inhabits and taints its physical being to be something other than a manifestation of darkness."
I'm speechless, struggling to process this revelation while fighting fresh tears. He's been here all along, watching me fall for men who then treated me like garbage.
Who made me relive old traumas.
Shame floods me as I realize I've forced him to witness history repeating itself. He had healed from watching my torture at Darius's hands, and I just dragged him back into that nightmare.
My head drops in shame as I try to apologize, but his fingers guide my chin back up. Very gently, he presses his lips to mine.
The kiss is soft and brief, yet it carries affirmation and comfort I didn't know I still needed.
"No," is all he says, denying whatever dark thoughts he sees brewing in my mind.
I swallow hard past the lump in my throat before wrapping my arms around him. He returns the embrace without hesitation as I whisper, "Thank you."
We stay like that for a long time, letting the silence speak volumes neither of us can put into words. Finally, we separate, and Atticus leads me to the changeroom to help me dress.
The wet tile is cold beneath my feet, but his presence keeps the memories of other cold floors at bay. His transformation is even more evident now – the chubby boy who once struggled to lift me is gone, replaced by someone whose every movement speaks of lethal grace.
Yet his eyes remain the same – that perfect mix of protective fury and infinite tenderness that had made me trust him that first horrible night. The eyes that had promised vengeance and delivered it without hesitation.
The eyes that now watch me with the same dedication, even after everything that's changed.
Water drips from his hair, following the lines of runes that mark his transformation from victim to avenger. Each tattoo probably tells a story – of power gained, prices paid, and sacrifices made to become strong enough to protect what he values.
To protect me.
The realization that he's been here all along, watching over me in the guise of Grim, makes my heart ache. He must have seen everything – every moment of hope and heartbreak, every small victory and crushing defeat.
And still, he waited, letting me learn my own strength while standing ready to catch me if I fell.
The changeroom's fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows, but they can't dim the soft conviction in his gaze. Even now, after watching me make the same mistakes, and fall for the same pretty lies, he looks at me without judgment.
His presence alone seems to push back the darkness that had been consuming me minutes ago. The urge to let the flames take everything still lingers, but it's duller now, manageable.
Because he's here.
Because he's always been here, even when I thought I was alone.
My guardian angel in devil's clothing.
Atticus helps me change into spare gym clothes, his fingers moving with practiced care as he brushes my hair just the way I like it.
These small gestures remind me what should matter in a relationship – not just the burning desire and physical connection, but the quiet moments of tenderness.
I'd been too blinded by possibility to remember that essential balance.
When I try to stand, dizziness hits hard. My knees buckle, but Atticus catches me before I can fall.
"I must be really low on blood," I admit weakly. "I should try the blood bank..."
Before I can attempt to rise again, his wrist appears before my face. I look up to find his gaze burning with conviction.
"No," I shake my head immediately, but he cuts me off.
"Do you want revenge?"
The question makes me pause. Any trace of mercy within me died in that shower, washed away with the day's humiliation.
"They made you into their villain, my Queen," he whispers like a knight preparing to pledge eternal loyalty. "It's time to let them have a taste of what happens when you play games with a woman's heart."
I hesitate, fear creeping in.
"What if I bond to you like the others?"
Instead of answering, he bites his bottom lip before leaning in to kiss me with heartbreaking tenderness.
The first scent of blood hits my nostrils, and I realize what he's done. A groan escapes me as I kiss him back greedily, unable to resist the overwhelming urge for blood.
My eyes roll back as instinct takes over.
A sudden shift in our environment breaks through the blood haze. I pull back from the kiss to find ourselves surrounded by a lava landscape – burning pillars and floating water slates creating an impossible vista.
We share a look before taking in our changed uniforms.
I move to trigger my glamour, but Atticus stops me.
We both turn toward a sudden pop-up message materializing from thin air. Flames ignite and dance, forming cursive letters that demand we wait for their complete formation.
As the flames finally extinguish, I read the words with widening eyes, whispering the message that would change everything.
"Seven will rise. Two will fall. A path awaits in burning carnage and drowning depths of infinite glory. Proceed to the check-in point to start your next trial."
The words hover before us, burning with an ethereal flame that casts dancing shadows across Atticus's face. His blood still lingers on my tongue, rich with power and promise, as we stare at the message that seems to mock everything that's happened.
Another trial.
Another test.
Another chance for this place to break us.
The lava landscape stretches endlessly around us, pillars of flame reaching toward a sky that shouldn't exist. Water floats in impossible configurations, defying gravity and logic alike.
Seven will rise.
Two will fall.
I let out a shaky breath as I read the final words, realizing what that blood-soaked kiss had triggered.
And now, the final piece in our defective team is officially complete.
“Welcome to Year Two...where monsters rise from the ashes of mercy, and survival demands a heart of ice.”
TO BE CONTINUED.
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ACADEMY OF THE WICKED: YEAR TWO