Page 14 of Wicked Depths

No keys. No struggle. Just raw power.

Her heeled boots click softly against the stone as she steps inside, her movements measured, deliberate, predatory. Like a beast entering its den, knowing it has already won.

"You’re toying with things you shouldn’t," she says, voice low, controlled.

I tilt my head, feigning innocence. "Am I?"

Her gaze flicks to the damp floor before settling back on me.

"You think I wouldn’t notice?"

I let my lips curl into a slow, knowing smile. "I was merely testing my accommodations. You wouldn’t want me to be uncomfortable, would you?"

Her wings twitch at her back, just barely.

Interesting.

She moves—fast.

One second, she’s across the room. The next, she’s in front of me, towering over me, her claws grazing the inside of my wrist. Heat radiates from her skin, her magic pulsing like a living thing, barely contained.

"Try that again," she murmurs, voice like silk wrapped around steel.

My pulse flutters. Not in fear. Never in fear. But in something else. Something far more dangerous.

I tilt my chin up, smirking. "What exactly are you going to do, Nyxara?"

Her claws trail lightly over my skin, just enough to send a shiver down my spine. Her power lingers in the air, thick and commanding, pressing in from all sides, daring me to submit.So, naturally, I do the opposite. I inhale slowly, gathering the last traces of moisture left in the air, willing it into something more. My power stirs, sluggish but still obedient—and I use it. My skin tingles as the shift happens, the summoning effortless, natural. Thick, smooth tentacles unfurl from the air around me, coiling languidly at my sides.

Nyxara stills.

I let my smirk widen.

One of the pearlescent limbs slithers forward, curling around her thigh, slow and teasing. Her claws dig into my wrist—not enough to break skin, but enough to warn.

"Careful, little siren," she growls, voice like embers in the dark. I hum, tilting my head, watching her carefully.

"Why?" I murmur. "Are you afraid you might like it?"

Her pupils flare.

A slow, sweet thrill rolls through me.

But before I can push further, a sharp gust of air sweeps through the room. I whip my head to the side just in time to see Morrin swoop in, talons latching onto the metal basin, yanking it from the floor.

I jerk as the last drops of water are ripped from my reach and immediately, the strain on my magic worsens. It dulls, as if someone has closed their fingers around my throat, pressing, squeezing. I snarl, stepping back, tentacles retracting as I fight the sudden weakness. Morrin flaps to Nyxara’s shoulder, his black wings rustling, the basin clutched tightly in his grip.

"Slippery thing, isn’t she?" he muses, his voice low and knowing.

Nyxara doesn’t smile.

But she doesn’t need to. I feel her victory like a physical thing in the air between us. I exhale sharply, rolling my shoulders, forcing myself to appear unfazed.

Fine.

She’s won this round. But the game is far from over. Nyxara steps closer, reaching out, and before I can react, she grips my chin between her claws. Her touch is cold, sharp, demanding attention. Her emerald gaze burns into mine.

"You think you’re clever," she murmurs, voice low, dangerous.

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