Page 59 of Wicked Depths

The weight of it—of us—hangs between us, thick as the waters surrounding her.

And I am done waiting.

“You feel it,” I murmur, stepping closer, trailing my fingers over her collarbone, feeling the warmth of her skin, the pulse of magic thrumming beneath it. “Don’t you?”

She exhales sharply, jaw clenching.

She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t deny it.

Doesn’t deny me.

I tilt my chin, letting my lips hover just shy of hers, tasting the heat in the space between us. “Let me have you.”

Her body is rigid, her nails pressing into her palms. She’s fighting it. Fighting me.

But then she snaps.

Her hands are on me before I can blink, claws digging into my hips as she pulls me flush against her, her mouth crashing into mine with a force that steals the breath from my lungs. It’s raw, punishing, desperate. A war in itself. A war I am more than willing to lose.

She bites my lip, hard enough to make me gasp, and when I do, her tongue slips past, deepening the kiss, devouring me.

Then, just as quickly, she wrenches herself away, her grip tightening, her eyes burning as she stares me down and sits herself down on the edge of my bed.

And then her voice drops, low and dark, filled with unspoken promise. “Crawl to me, little siren.”

The words slam into me, knocking the air from my lungs.

Heat licks up my spine, pooling deep in my stomach, setting my skin alight with something molten, something unshakable.

I swallow, my pulse hammering, but I don’t move. Not yet.

Her emerald eyes gleam, daring me, waiting.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” Her voice is nothing but smoke and fire, curling around me, demanding, dominating.

My breath catches.

Slowly I drop to my hands, the cool stone brushing against my palms as I shift, sliding one knee forward, then the other.

I watch her as I move, as I obey, dragging myself toward her with slow, measured movements, my gaze locked onto hers.

Nyxara watches me, her chest rising and falling steadily, but there’s something else now—something deeper, something raw.

Possession.

Satisfaction.

And fuck, I think I like it.

I reach her feet, still on my hands and knees. My breath is uneven, my body taut with anticipation. I tilt my head back, meeting her gaze from below, and the look in her eyes nearly undoes me.

Dark. Possessive. Triumphant.

Her claws drag down my arms, a teasing threat, sharp enough to remind me who holds the control but not enough to break skin. A slow, deliberate touch that sends a shiver down my spine.

“Remind me, siren,” she murmurs, voice smooth as molten steel, “exactly what it is you feel.”

My breath catches.

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