Page 23 of Wicked Depths

I like it when my prey gets close enough to sink my teeth into.

The heavy doors creak open, and I don’t bother turning. I already know who it is.

"Good morning, Dragon Queen," I purr, stretching luxuriously on the chaise, the dark silk of my gown sliding higher up my thigh as I shift. "I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me."

She doesn’t respond right away, and that alone intrigues me. When I finally glance over, my smirk deepens.

She’s watching me, eyes dark with something I can’t quite name. Her usual armor of black lace and shadows is different today—more fitted, the bodice laced with emerald stones that glow faintly in the dim candlelight. The neckline plunges scandalously low for someone who claims to be all sharp edges and steel.

She’s gorgeous. A predator wrapped in silk and wickedness.

"You seem comfortable," she says, her voice a measured calm, but there’s a note of irritation beneath it.

I smirk, shifting slightly. "Should I not be? You’ve given me a castle to roam, servants who don’t tremble in my presence, and a rather breathtaking view of your moody little kingdom. If this is imprisonment, I must say, I’m quite fond of it."

"You remain a prisoner," she says, voice flat.

I hum thoughtfully, tilting my head. "And yet, I don’t feel like one."

"Perhaps I should remind you."

A delicious little threat. I rise from the chaise slowly, deliberately, letting the firelight catch the shimmer of my pearls.

"Tell me something, Nyxara," I muse, stepping closer. "Is it easier to pretend you despise me than to admit you might actually enjoy having me here?"

Her emerald eyes darken, the air between us charged with something heavy, something dangerous.

"You assume too much," she murmurs.

I smile, slow and knowing. "Do I?"

Her claws flex at her sides, a tell, but she doesn’t strike. Not yet. "You should tread carefully, little siren," she says, voice lower now, like a warning wrapped in velvet. "I am not a patient woman."

"Then tell me why I’m still here," I press, stepping close enough that our breath mingles, close enough that I can see the flicker of something she tries to hide.

"You are bound to me. That is enough."

"Is it?" I whisper.

For a moment, just a moment, something in her wavers.

Then—

The doors slam open. Morrin.

The bat swoops inside, his wings cutting through the air before landing on a high-backed chair. His black eyes flick between us, unimpressed.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Nyxara is the first to move, stepping back sharply. The distance returns.

Damn.

"No," she says, her voice clipped, but I don’t miss the way her jaw tightens.

Morrin clicks his tongue. "Good, because we have a problem. Movement in the eastern wood. Scouts. They’re testing the borders."

The shift in her is immediate. Gone is the cold amusement, the restrained composure. Nyxara turns toward the door.

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