Page 30 of Wicked Depths

What I would become.

His blood still stains the stones of his palace.

The vision fractures—twisting, breaking.

And suddenly, I am standing in the burning wreckage of a city, his corpse at my feet, his crown cracked in two. The humans cower before me, their fear delicious, but my rage is hollow.

Because no matter how many of them I kill, it will never be enough to undo what was taken.

What was lost.

I wake with a sharp inhale, my pulse a thunderous rhythm in my ears.

The room is dark, the air cool against my damp skin. My fingers are clenched in the silk sheets, my breath uneven.

It has been decades since that war. Since his betrayal. Since I stood in that city, my body dripping in the blood of the man I once believed could be mine.

And yet, it haunts me.

I rise swiftly, shrugging off the remnants of sleep, my body tense with restless energy. The memories coil in my chest, suffocating, and I need something—anything—to quiet them.

Without thinking, I move.

I find myself outside her chambers before I fully register my own actions.

The door is unlocked.

Of course it is. She knows I’ll come to her.

I step inside, and the sight before me is enough to still my breath.

Vaela is draped across the chaise near the fire, her body partially hidden beneath the same sheer white robe she had been wearing earlier. The firelight flickers over her pearl-toned skin, casting shadows across the delicate lines of her form.

She looks utterly at ease.

But her eyes find mine, cool and knowing.

“I was wondering when you’d stop pacing the halls,” she muses, voice laced with amusement.

I scowl, stepping further inside, letting the door click shut behind me. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was merely ensuring you hadn’t wandered where you shouldn’t.”

She smirks. “Of course. And here I thought you might have missed me.”

I exhale sharply, ignoring the heat curling low in my stomach. “You assume too much.”

She hums, tilting her head. “Then tell me, Dragon Queen, what has you so unsettled?”

I hesitate.

It is not often I am at a loss for words.

But there is something about her—about the way she watches me, as if she sees past the steel and fire, past the rage and the crown.

As if she sees me.

I hate it.

I hate that I do not turn and leave.

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