Page 74 of Wicked Depths

Two guards flank me, their hands hovering near their weapons as if I might snap my fingers and drown them where they stand.

I don’t miss the way they stiffen when my tentacle flicks lazily along my calf, or how their grips tighten on their swords when I sigh, stretching as if this entire situation bores me.

One of them, a scarred man with a permanent sneer, grunts, “You must be desperate to walk into the lion’s den, sea witch.”

I arch a brow, barely sparing him a glance. “Is that what you call this? A lion’s den?” My lips curl. “Strange. All I see are rats scrambling over scraps.”

The sneering one lets out a harsh chuckle, stepping closer, his breath hot and rancid against my skin. “Watch your mouth, sea witch, or I’ll—”

I turn to him sharply, my tentacle flicking out before he can finish, curling around his throat with just enough pressure to make his next breath stutter.

“You’ll what?” I murmur, tilting my head, my grip tightening ever so slightly. His pulse races beneath my hold, his bravado faltering.

The younger soldier stiffens, shifting his weight, debating whether or not to intervene.

I lean in closer, my voice smooth as silk, laced with venom. “If you value your tongue, I suggest you keep it. Otherwise…” My smirk deepens as I let my tentacle slide lower, just brushing against the hilt of his sword. “I’ll have it.”

His jaw clenches, fury battling with fear in his eyes.

I release him with a slow, deliberate pull, stepping forward without another glance.

“Now,” I purr, adjusting the pearls at my throat as if nothing happened. “Let’s not keep your king waiting.”

King Aldric Velmar II is exactly what I expected—broad. Powerful. Marinated in wealth and warfare.

He sits in a throne built from stolen bones, fingers tapping lazily against the pommel of the blade at his side. A king who takes what he wants, who drinks deeply from the suffering of others, his crownless head a statement—one that promises he will claim another soon.

His dark, calculating eyes rake over me as I step inside, slow and thorough, assessing, cataloging, deciding what I am worth. A smirk pulls at his lips, indulgent, amused.

I tilt my head, letting the pearls along my collar catch the candlelight. "No crown?"

The king’s smile widens, teeth flashing white against his tanned skin.

"Why wear one," he muses, "when my hands are already poised to take another?"

Predictable.

I step closer, the fabric of my gown whispering against the ground, my hip brushing against the edge of his throne as I trail my fingers along the golden goblet at his side.

"Bold words," I murmur, watching his eyes darken. "And yet, last I checked, your men were still bleeding into the dirt outside her borders."

His jaw tightens—a barely perceptible flicker of irritation.

Even as he keeps his mask of amusement, I see the crack in his patience.

"You came to me," he counters smoothly. "That means I’ve already won."

I let my lips curl. "Oh? And here I thought I came because your army was too weak to break through Varellith’s borders without me."

The air in the tent stiffens. A few of his guards shift uncomfortably. Aldric’s eyes flicker—not with anger, but something closer to intrigue.

He does not scare easily.

Good. Because I want him to believe he is winning.

I lower myself onto the furs beside his throne, crossing my legs lazily, letting my tentacle slide along my calf, curling lightly around my thigh.

Aldric watches the movement closely—the way the pearlescent tendril flexes, the way my body shifts with ease, the way I hold myself with power, not submission.

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