Page 44 of Wicked Depths

"You think yourself untouchable," she murmurs, her voice like the edge of a blade, honed and dangerous. "You think this is a game."

I arch a brow, lips parting in mock surprise. "Oh? So you don’t deny it, then?"

Her nostrils flare, a warning, but I am far past heeding those.

I tilt my chin up slightly, pressing just enough against her hold to test her. "You can tell yourself whatever you need to, Nyxara, but I know what I feel." I lower my voice, letting it drip with amusement, with something sharper. "And what I feel—what you feel—isn’t something that just goes away."

Her grip tightens—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me she could. That she is holding herself back.

"You overstep," she warns, voice low, sharp.

"And yet, you don’t move," I hum, leaning in, letting my breath tease against her lips. "You hold me here, but I wonder—are you keeping me in place, or are you keeping yourself from running?"

Her claws flex, her magic crackling between us. For a second—just a second—I think she might give in. That she might pull me closer, let the tension break into something real, something consuming.

But then she snarls, ripping herself away from me as if I’ve burned her.

I don’t miss the way her fingers twitch, the way her breath comes sharp, the way her magic flares unbidden before she reins it back. The way she refuses to look at me for more than a second.

I laugh, smooth and slow, pushing off the table, flexing my freed wrists as I turn to face her fully.

"Fascinating," I drawl, tilting my head. "For all your talk of fire, it seems you’re the one afraid of getting burned."

Her eyes snap to mine, sharp as a blade’s edge, fury swirling in those emerald depths.

"You mean nothing to me," she hisses, voice cold, controlled, but there’s something else beneath it. Something raw.

I drag a slow, knowing smile across my lips, reaching out, trailing a single finger along the war table’s surface.

"Liar."

Her lips part, a sharp retort on the tip of her tongue but she doesn’t speak it.

Instead, she turns, her cloak snapping behind her as she strides from the room, a storm barely restrained.

I watch her retreat, my smirk widening.

Yes.

This will be fun.

Chapter

Twelve

NYXARA

Rage is a dangerous thing.

It fuels me, feeds me, coils in my veins like a living thing, demanding violence, destruction, vengeance. And right now, it is all I can see.

I stand in the war chamber, my claws digging into the edge of the stone table, the carved ridges of Varellith pressing into my palms. The pale morning light beams in through he large gothic windows along the wall. The map before me is littered with markers, each one a reminder of how close the human king is creeping into my lands.

The torches flicker violently in their sconces, feeding off my fury.

Then I hear it.

The shifting of shadows, the ripple in the air. The scent of frost and midnight steel.

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