Page 18 of Wicked Depths

Her smirk sharpens. She sees the hesitation. The reluctance.

"You need me," she says again, softer this time. Certain.

"I need nothing from you," I snap.

She steps closer, slow and deliberate, her presence tauntingly calm as her fingers skim the pearls embedded into her bodice. "Oh, but you do," she purrs. "You burn. I heal. I think that makes us… useful to each other."

I narrow my eyes. "You?"

She sighs, rolling her shoulders. "The sea isn’t just destruction and power, Nyxara. It gives life, just as much as it takes. I may not be able to call forth my full strength from within these walls, but I can mend. I can take that nasty little wound and make it disappear." She leans in slightly, her voice dropping into something dangerously smooth. "Unless, of course, you'd rather bleed out on your own floors out of sheer pride."

I inhale sharply through my nose, hating every word that leaves her lips—because I know she’s right. But letting her touch me? Letting her use magic on me? I don’t trust her. Yet my fingers twitch, blood slick between them. I can already feel my body growing heavier, the edges of my vision flickering.

She notices. Of course she does.

Vaela watches me, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Admit it, Nyxara," she taunts. "Just this once, you need me." My fingers curl at my sides, my claws biting into my palms. I should refuse. I should let the wound knit itself togetherin time, should push her away and let her rot in that cell where she belongs.

But if I collapse here, I will die.

And I am not ready to die.

I exhale sharply through my nose, lifting a hand. The barrier shatters, the magic dissipating like mist, the air thrumming as the wards unravel. A sharp click echoes through the chamber as the lock on the door releases, the heavy chains slipping free, falling away like dead weight.

Vaela steps forward, slow, deliberate, like a predator scenting fresh blood. I don’t stop her when she brushes cool fingers against my ribs, her touch featherlight, almost reverent. I grit my teeth, suppressing a snarl as pain flares hot and sharp through my side. My vision wavers for a fraction of a second, and I hate that she sees it.

Her smirk widens. "Tell me where your chambers are, Dragon Queen."

I bare my teeth. "I can make it myself."

She clicks her tongue, mock sympathy lacing her voice. "Oh, of course you can. That stumble back there was purely for dramatic effect, I’m sure."

I don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, I push forward only for my knee to nearly buckle beneath me. Vaela doesn’t lunge to catch me. No, she waits. Watches. Lets me struggle. I snarl under my breath. Hating this. Hating her. Hating that she’s right.

"East wing," I grind out, jaw tight. "The highest tower."

Vaela hums, tilting her head. "A tower? How brooding of you."

"Shut up and move."

She laughs, a slow, decadent sound, but she steps closer, slipping an arm around my waist as I begrudgingly lean into her.

Her touch is cool against my fevered skin, steady and sure, and I loathe the way my body relaxes slightly beneath it.

"You’re heavier than you look," she muses, voice mocking, teasing.

"Or perhaps you’re weaker than you think," I counter, though the words come out rougher than I intend.

She grins. "Oh, I like you injured. You’re easier to deal with."

"Keep talking, and I’ll find a way to burn you with what little strength I have left."

Her chuckle is dark, pleased.

We push through the corridors, my pace slow, forced. Every step sends a fresh pulse of pain through my side, but I refuse to stop, refuse to let my weakness become another thing for her to toy with. At last, we reach my chambers, and Vaela kicks open the door with an amused little smirk. She guides me inside, then steps back just as I begin to sway.

"Sit, Nyxara," she murmurs, her voice like the pull of the tide.

A command. A dare. A challenge. I hesitate for a moment longer, but the exhaustion pressing against my bones is winning. So I sit. She kneels beside me, reaching for the jug of water left on the nearby table, likely placed there by one of the castle’s unseen servants. Practical. Convenient. Lifting it with ease, she pours the cool liquid into a basin, her fingers trailing through the water as it ripples at her touch. Magic thrums in the air, faint but undeniable, responding to her call. She dips her fingers into it, the liquid glowing softly, wrapping around her hands in tendrils of silver-blue light. Magic hums in the air, thick, charged. I inhale sharply as the water seeps into my skin, pulling the wound closed, knitting flesh together.

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