Page 15 of Wicked Depths

I smirk, slow and deliberate.

"I know I am."

A muscle feathers in her jaw. Then, just as quickly, she releases me, turning sharply, her cloak billowing behind her as she strides toward the door.

"Stay in line, Vaela," she says, her voice calm, measured—a command, not a request.

I lick my lips, tilting my head as I watch her turn, her cloak billowing behind her like a storm cloud.

A slow, taunting smile curves my lips. "And if I don’t?" I murmur, my voice silken, dripping with defiance.

She pauses.

Just for a second. It’s quick, barely noticeable, but I see it. The tension in her shoulders, the subtle twitch of her claws. She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t reply. She just vanishes into the shadows of her castle, leaving behind the ghost of her magic, thick in the air—a lingering pulse, a phantom touch.

I inhale slowly, rolling my shoulders, stretching my limbs despite the dull ache of my dampened power. My lips curve into a smirk, because we both know I won’t behave.

And something tells me… she doesn’t really want me to.

After all, I know women like her. Strong, untouchable, believing themselves to be above the pull of desire, above the mess of need. I’ve had my fair share of women—queens and commoners alike, hands tangled in my hair, lips parted in breathless pleas, their thighs trembling beneath the slow, deliberate drag of my tongue.

And unlike men—men with their fumbling hands, their arrogance, their incessant need to take and take without knowing how to give—women are a storm to be unraveled.

Women are shameless in their pleasure, not seeking conquest, but demanding worship. And gods, do I love to worship.

And Nyxara?

Oh, she may pretend she’s different, above it all, but I see the way she looks at me. The way her claws twitch and her dragon fire burns when I get too close.

She’s fighting it.

And I can’t wait for the moment she stops.

Chapter

Five

NYXARA

Ishould kill her.

I should have killed her the moment I found her chained like a prized offering in the humans’ camp, before her siren’s voice slithered into my thoughts, before her tentacles curled around my thigh, before her icy white-blue eyes locked onto mine with that knowing smirk. She is dangerous.

Not just because of her magic, but because of the way she wields it. Vaela doesn’t use power like a blade. She uses it like a promise. A whispered lure meant to unravel even the strongest of us.

And I am not weak.

Yet when I walked away from her, when I felt her gaze lingering on my back, taunting, luring, I knew it then. She will be my undoing.

But not today.

The scent of human filth lingers on the wind, thick with sweat, iron, and the acrid stink of torch smoke. I move silently through Varellith’s shadows, the forest whispering around me, its ancient magic pulsing in time with my own. These human men do not belong here. Their very presence is a violation, aninsult. They crush roots beneath their boots, disturbing a land older than their pathetic kingdom.

I perch in the crook of a withered yew, my talons curling into the bark, wings partially extended to steady myself. Below, a scouting party of six moves through the underbrush, blades unsheathed, their movements stiff with tension. They are nervous. They should be.

Their leader steps forward, a grizzled man with a jagged scar cutting down his jaw. He raises a hand, signaling the others to stop. He senses something.

Good.

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