Page 13 of Wicked Depths

"Not like that." My mother’s voice had been clipped, cool. Impatient. "The ocean does not wait. It does not whisper. It takes." Her eyes, silver and sharp, locked onto mine. Waiting. Expecting.

"Try again."

And I had.

I had clenched my fists, let the tide of my magic crash against me, and pulled. The water had leapt to my call, twisting, clawing, surging, rising in violent, spiraling tendrils. The pressure of it had been exhilarating, the power a song in my blood.

For a moment, I had felt unstoppable.

Then I had lost control.

The waves had shattered against the chamber walls, cracking the coral, flooding the throne room. The force had sent me crashing backward, my own power turning against me, drowning me in its grip.

And my mother?

She had simply watched.

When the water finally stilled, leaving me gasping, she had knelt beside me, gripping my chin between her fingers.

"You are not a siren," she had whispered, her expression unreadable. "You are something else entirely. And something like you…" Her nails had dug into my skin. "Must never beg for power. You take it."

The words had carved themselves into me. And I had never forgotten. Even now, as I sit trapped in a dragon’s castle, my power restrained, my strength weakened, I refuse to forget. I smirk, letting the thin tendril of water dance along my skin, curling up my arm like a living thing. The wards are strong, but they cannot fully silence me.

They can weaken me. Not stop me.

"That’s cute."

The voice is smooth, edged with amusement, but there’s a warning beneath it.

I don’t jump. Slowly, I lift my gaze to the doorway.

And there she stands.

Nyxara.

A vision of shadow and sin.

She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, exuding the kind of effortless authority that demands submission—or defiance. Her emerald eyes gleam, sharp as cut glass, holding thinly veiled irritation beneath their striking depths.

She looks unimpressed.

But gods, she’s stunning.

She’s clad in black lace and onyx-studded fabric, the delicate weave clinging to every curve of her tight, toned body. The bodice of her gown is adorned with glistening obsidian and deep violet stones, cut low enough to draw the eye to the swell of her breasts, barely contained beneath the intricate lace.

Her long, midnight-dark hair cascades past her waist, thick and silken, moving with the soft sway of her body. Strands catch in the dim green torchlight, glinting with a subtle sheen, as if woven from the night itself.

Her lips—full, sculpted, tempting—press into a thin line, irritation warring with amusement. The sharp planes of her cheekbones, the regal arch of her brow, the way her claws tap idly against her arms—she is a study in controlled violence, barely leashed power, and ruthless, dark beauty.

Heat coils low in my stomach.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

"Good morning, Dragon Queen," I purr, letting the water collapse harmlessly back onto the stone.

Her expression doesn’t change.

But I see the slight tightening of her jaw, the subtle flare of her nostrils—small, telling signs that she’s not nearly as indifferent as she pretends to be. Then, with a flick of her wrist, the lock on my cell shudders, the metal glowing faintly before clicking open.

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