Chapter 17 No Rest For The Wicked #2
The question is directed at no one in particular, but the weight behind it suggests genuine consideration rather than simple rhetorical frustration.
I huff.
"No."
The denial emerges before conscious thought can filter it through diplomatic consideration—instinct responding to threat against someone my magic apparently considers mine, regardless of what my conscious mind thinks about the complicated bond that connects us.
"You can't kill Koishii."
All attention shifts to me.
The floating men—those I can see, at least—initially look unimpressed with my intervention.
Their expressions carry the particular weight of people who have been dealing with something infuriating for hours while I apparently slept through the entire ordeal, people who feel their frustration deserves more acknowledgment than a simple prohibition against murder.
Then they actually look at me.
Eyes widen.
Across the room—suspended in various positions of helpless floating—my bond mates take in my transformed appearance for the first time.
I watch their gazes travel across features that I know have changed dramatically since they last saw me: the gold of my hair catching whatever light filters through the destruction, the pink of my transformed eyes carrying Fae intensity they've never seen in me before, the shimmer of my skin broadcasting magical nature I didn't possess when I entered that cocoon.
The dress doesn't help with the dramatic reveal.
Sheer panels and royal silhouette and fabric that screams Fae princess rather than Academy survivor—I'm aware of how different I must appear, how thoroughly transformed from the woman they knew into something that carries the visual weight of heritage finally asserting itself.
Koishii whistles.
The sound carries appreciation that makes heat climb my newly-pink cheeks despite my best efforts at composure.
"Ah," he observes, satisfaction saturating his tone. "My Awakened Queen. Your royal Fae appearance suits you indeed."
I pout at the observation.
The expression feels wrong on features I'm still getting used to, but the sentiment behind it is entirely genuine.
I don't want to look like a Fae princess.
I don't want royal appearances and awakened heritage and the particular femininity that this transformation has apparently decided to emphasize.
I want my old face back.
I want to be me.
But apparently that's not an option right now.
My legs kick in frustration—the particular motion of someone trying to generate momentum despite being suspended in someone else's grip.
The shadow tendrils holding me sway with the movement but don't release, Cassius's magic apparently not trusting me to navigate whatever chaos exists at ground level.
The tendrils seem to understand my intention before I can articulate it.
They swing me forward with the smooth motion of darkness responding to unspoken desire, carrying my transformed form across the space between my current position and where Koishii stands amidst the destruction he apparently caused.
The journey happens faster than I expected—one moment I'm suspended near the damaged ceiling, the next I'm stopping directly in front of the trickster prince with proximity that allows action I've been contemplating since hearing that wedding ceremony comment.
I reach out.
And karate chop him directly on the head.
The impact isn't hard enough to cause damage—not with my current strength, not against someone whose Fae nature probably provides protection against casual violence anyway—but it's solid enough to communicate displeasure in terms that transcend verbal expression.
Thwack.
The sound echoes through the suddenly silent room.
Everyone gawks at me.
Koishii's expression cycles through confusion—genuine confusion, the particular bewilderment of someone who has apparently never experienced consequences for their actions—before settling into shock that my audacity has produced.
"You—" he starts.
"I don't condone violence among team members," I interrupt, the statement emerging with the particular authority of someone who has just demonstrated willingness to contradict their own words. "But why are you taunting them?"
The question carries weight that extends beyond its surface inquiry.
"They were worried," I continue, frustration and concern and something that might be affection all competing for dominance in my tone.
"They were worried about me, about Nikolai, about whatever they thought was happening.
And instead of reassuring them, you've been—what?
Playing games? Enjoying their distress?"
He blinks.
The reaction is almost childlike in its simplicity—the particular response of someone who has been called out for behavior they didn't realize was problematic.
Then he pouts.
"Because it's fun," he admits, the words emerging with sulking quality that makes him seem suddenly younger than his centuries should permit.
I groan.
The sound carries exasperation that I don't bother trying to hide.
"You need to show the difference between sarcasm and realism," I lecture, the words emerging with the particular cadence of someone who has apparently decided to parent a millennia-old Fae prince.
"Or else they're going to actually think I was being whisked off to Faerie to be married and rule another kingdom than my own that I've yet to claim! "
The statement makes his pout deepen further.
His expression carries the particular devastation of someone who has been scolded—perhaps for the first time in centuries of existence that apparently included very little accountability.
I realize as I watch his features shift that he probably hasn't been called out for his behavior before.
Royal. Powerful. Isolated for more years than I can conceptualize.
Who would have told him no?
Who would have risked his displeasure by pointing out when his games crossed lines?
The answer is obvious: no one.
Until now.
He mutters something quietly.
The words are soft enough that I have to strain to hear them, but they land with weight that makes my irritation soften despite my best efforts to maintain disciplinary energy.
"But I was worried, my Queen."
Worried.
He was worried too.
And his worry manifested as chaos and trickery because that's apparently the only way he knows how to express concern.
I stare at him for a moment, trying not to look careless about his confession despite the complicated feelings it produces.
He's a mess—centuries of isolation have clearly produced coping mechanisms that prioritize entertainment over genuine connection, deflection over vulnerability, games over honest communication.
But he cares.
In his weird, broken, trickster way, he cares.
I cross my arms over the bodice of my ridiculous Fae dress and adjust my pout into something that carries less heat and more expectation.
"Well, you have to show it better," I tell him, voice softening despite my intentions to maintain scolding energy. "Because they don't understand that when you're ready to ignite a world war with them."
The observation makes him look away—the particular avoidance of someone who doesn't know how to respond to gentle criticism.
"I still don't get this whole mate background thing with you," I continue, acknowledging the confusion that still dominates my understanding of whatever bond connects us. "Which we'll dive into deeply once we know where we stand with the Academy."
The promise of future conversation seems to settle something in his posture.
"However," I press, needing him to understand this before we move forward, "they aren't your enemies.
It's thanks to each of them that I survived each Year of Wicked Academy.
We were strangers... and basically enemies, at different points.
But we put our differences aside to get this far, for me to unlock this plane.
So you have to show them just a bit of respect, even if you don't wish to. "
Silence greets my words.
He doesn't respond verbally—doesn't acknowledge the request, doesn't argue against it, doesn't do anything that would indicate he's actually processing what I've said.
I sigh.
Then reach out again.
This time my touch is gentle—finger finding his forehead with pressure that's more comfort than chastisement.
I trace along his skin in a certain pattern, following lines that remind me of the mark I saw in the mirror.
The bond mark. The crown of thorns that apparently connects us in ways neither of us fully understands.
His features are currently clear of any visible marking, the design hidden for whatever reasons Fae magic decides such things should be hidden. But I can feel it there—can sense the connection that pulses between us even when it's not visible, the bond that existed before I knew it was possible.
"We are not your enemy, Koishii," I tell him, voice carrying truth that I hope he can hear beneath whatever defenses he's built across centuries of isolation. "Taunt them, sure. Annoy them, fine. Even if you want to play rough, cool."
His eyes meet mine with intensity that makes my breath catch.
"But at the end of the day," I continue, "they care for me. They protect me. They love me in their own unique ways and at different stages, just like we're in our own stage."
The acknowledgment of our connection makes something shift in his expression.
"We can all go down our paths and respect that, yes?"
He stares into my transformed eyes for a long moment—pink meeting shifting features, gold meeting whatever colors his irises decide to be in any given heartbeat.
The silence stretches with the weight of consideration, of evaluation, of someone deciding whether to trust the person in front of them with vulnerability they've been protecting for far too long.
Then he nods.