I drink deeply, bodies pressed together with desperate intimacy. Every swallow brings clarity, like veils being lifted from my consciousness. The trial's hold weakens with each pull of blood, illusions fracturing as our bond reasserts itself against false narrative.
My body responds to more than blood—to her proximity, her acceptance, the way she holds me instead of fighting. The grinding is instinctive, seeking connection beyond what fangs and blood provide. I need her touch, her presence, her confirmation that this is real and not another cruel loop of loss.
"I'm here," she whispers against my hair. "I'm real. You haven't lost me."
The words combined with her blood—freely given, flavored with concern rather than fear—shatter something in me.
The darkness explodes outward, but instead of consuming, it dissipates. The dozens of my versions collapse into one—just me, just Atticus, held by woman who came into my trial to save me from myself.
Clarity returns like ice water to the face.
"Oh gods," I gasp, pulling back with horror at what I've done, what I've become. "Gwenievere, I'm so sorry, I?—"
She doesn't let me pull away completely, arms keeping me close even as my fangs retract.
"It's okay," she says, though I can see the marks on her throat, the evidence of my desperate feeding. "The trial was designed to break you using your own insecurities."
"I attacked you." The words taste like ash. "I tried to trap you, I?—"
"You were puppet by your own fears," she interrupts firmly. "The Academy, this realm, it used you. Used the parts of you that feel left out, overlooked, forgotten."
The accuracy of it makes me flinch.
"I've missed you," I admit, the words small but necessary. "I know you're close with the others, know you have obligations, connections, but... I feel left out. Like I'm least important, most disposable."
Her expression shifts to something I don't expect—guilt.
"That's my fault," she says simply. "Your feelings are completely valid, Atticus. I haven't been balancing things properly."
She shifts to look me directly in the eyes, her hands framing my face with gentle insistence.
"Despite how busy we've been, it's no excuse. I should have tried to ease your concerns before they reached this point. Should have made sure you knew how valuable you are, how much you matter."
The honesty in her voice makes my throat tight with emotions that have nothing to do with hunger.
"I never meant to make you feel disposable or ignored," she continues. "You were my first real choice, remember? Not forced by trial or accident but chosen because I wanted you with me."
I cling to her then, arms wrapping around her with desperate strength that she doesn't resist. My face buries in her neck—not to feed but to hide the tears that vampires aren't supposed to shed.
"I won't lose you again," I whisper against her skin. "Can't lose you again."
"You never lost me," she assures, her own arms tightening around me. "But I'm going to make sure you know that. That you feel validated and loved and never have to wonder about your place with me."
We stay like that—vampire and this newfound being she's becoming, wrapped around each other in space that's stabilizing now that the trial's been broken.
The room materializes around us, similar to hers but decorated in darker tones, more iron and less leather.
"The others," I finally say, though I don't release her. "We need to find them."
"We will," she promises. "But first, you need to recover. That blood loss wasn't sustainable."
She's right.
Even with her blood reinforcing me, I can feel the weakness from spending so much of my own vitae. But having her here, having her blood warming my veins, having her promise that I matter—it's already healing more than physical damage.
"Mortimer," I say suddenly, the name bringing back that jealous burn. "You bonded with him."
It's not accusation—not anymore.
