Page 43 of Wicked Depths

A shift.

The air thickens as my magic awakens. The water surges, swirling violently, expanding outward as I pull. The portal forms along the far wall, glowing with bioluminescent light.

I exhale, power rushing through me, curling like a serpent beneath my skin, my tentacles unfurling, stretching, rejoicing.

And when I turn back, Nyxara is watching.

Watching too closely.

I grin. And then, slowly I trail a single hand down the chest of the Spectral standing beside me.

His body flickers, violet eyes gleaming as I hum in approval. “Strong hands,” I muse, my fingers grazing his armored wrist. “I do hope they are put to good use.”

Nyxara goes still.

The Sentinels do not breathe.

The room is silent.

Her voice is low. Dangerous. “Everyone. Leave.”

The room empties. The door slams shut.

And then, Nyxara is on me.

She slams me against the war table, the impact rattling the carved pieces that mark her realm. Her hands grip my wrists, pinning them hard against the cold wood, claws pressing just enough to make my pulse quicken.

Her breath is hot against my skin, her body a furnace of fury and something far more dangerous. The embers of it crackle between us, waiting, begging to ignite.

"If you wish to play games, siren," she growls, voice dark, possessive, furious, "do not be surprised when you get burnt."

I shudder, but not from fear. No, I shudder because she is so close, because her body fits against mine like a threat, because her rage tastes like desire.

But I do not yield.

Instead, I smirk, tilting my head just enough for my lips to ghost along the corner of hers, barely touching, a taunt more than a kiss.

"And what if I’m waiting," I murmur, voice slow, silken, dripping with challenge, "to feel that heat lick against my skin?"

Her grip tightens.

Her pupils dilate, the deep emerald swallowed by something darker.

Her claws press, just shy of breaking the skin.

"Careful, little siren," she breathes, her voice like velvet over steel. "You do not understand the fire you toy with."

I hum, feigning thoughtfulness. "Mm, don’t I?" I shift beneath her, arching just slightly, enough to let my body drag against hers. "Because from where I stand—or rather, where I’m pinned—it seems to me that you’re the one burning."

Her jaw clenches. I can feel the tremor in her fingers, the way her body tightens, her restraint a leash she is seconds from snapping.

"You’re insufferable," she hisses.

"And you feel something," I counter smoothly, my smirk widening, watching the way her pupils darken, the way her claws twitch as if resisting the urge to dig into my skin.

She growls low in her throat, her grip shifting so suddenly that I gasp. She releases one of my wrists only to press her palm flat against my throat—not squeezing, just holding, just testing. Just reminding me who holds the control.

I suck in a breath, pulse hammering beneath her touch, but I do not fight her. I do not pull away.

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