Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
VAELA
Savage - Bahari
I wake to the sound of scurrying.
Tiny claws scraping against stone, the faint rustling of fur brushing the floor. Rats.
A flicker of irritation curls through me as I roll onto my side, the lumpy excuse for a bed doing nothing to soften the stiffness in my limbs. I blink against the dim light, taking in the scattered droplets glistening on the uneven stone floor. A dark stain spreads from where my basin once stood, its contents wasted.
The little vermin knocked it over.
A slow, steady breath hisses between my teeth. I push myself up, my movements fluid despite the stiffness in my muscles. The shadows skittering along the edges of the room pause, beady black eyes watching me warily.
"You little pests," I murmur, voice thick with disdain. One of them lets out a high-pitched squeak. I move faster than they expect, sweeping my foot forward, sending one of the creatures tumbling. The rest scatter, disappearing into the cracks of the walls. I let out a slow sigh, rubbing a hand over my face.
I feel… weaker.
Not helpless—never helpless—but diminished. My magic is still there, coiled inside me like a serpent waiting to strike. But it is muffled, smothered by the enchanted walls of this cursed place. And now, with no water nearby, my connection is even thinner, fraying like a thread stretched too far.
Still, I have to try.
I kneel beside the darkened stone, pressing my palm against the cool surface where the water once pooled. The droplets that remain pulse faintly in response, trembling beneath my touch.
Come on.
I close my eyes, inhaling deeply, letting my magic stretch outward, pushing against the weight of the wards. The pressure is suffocating, thick as the ocean depths, but I have learned to navigate through pressure, through restraint.
A flicker of power stirs.
The dampness lifts, curling up my fingers in a delicate tendril, barely more than a whisper of water.
Pathetic.
But even the smallest drop can become a storm in the right hands. I learned that long ago. The memory rises, unbidden—a flicker of the past pushing through the present. I had been young, too young to understand that magic was something to be feared. I remember the first time my mother tested me.
We stood in the throne chamber of Aqueira, my home beneath the waves, where the coral spires twisted like frozen flames and the bioluminescent glow of the deep pulsed against the glassy walls. The sea churned above us, heavy and vast, a kingdom that stretched far beyond sight.
She had been watching me closely that day. Too closely.
"Summon it," she had said, reclining against her throne of woven kelp and carved pearl.
I had barely been past my first century then, my power still raw, untamed. The water stirred at my command, sluggish but obedient, rising in soft, uncertain waves.
"Not like that." My mother’s voice had been clipped, cool. Impatient. "The ocean does not wait. It does not whisper. It takes." Her eyes, silver and sharp, locked onto mine. Waiting. Expecting.
"Try again."
And I had.
I had clenched my fists, let the tide of my magic crash against me, and pulled. The water had leapt to my call, twisting, clawing, surging, rising in violent, spiraling tendrils. The pressure of it had been exhilarating, the power a song in my blood.
For a moment, I had felt unstoppable.
Then I had lost control.
The waves had shattered against the chamber walls, cracking the coral, flooding the throne room. The force had sent me crashing backward, my own power turning against me, drowning me in its grip.
And my mother?
She had simply watched.
When the water finally stilled, leaving me gasping, she had knelt beside me, gripping my chin between her fingers.
"You are not a siren," she had whispered, her expression unreadable. "You are something else entirely. And something like you…" Her nails had dug into my skin. "Must never beg for power. You take it."
The words had carved themselves into me. And I had never forgotten. Even now, as I sit trapped in a dragon’s castle, my power restrained, my strength weakened, I refuse to forget. I smirk, letting the thin tendril of water dance along my skin, curling up my arm like a living thing. The wards are strong, but they cannot fully silence me.
They can weaken me. Not stop me.
"That’s cute."
The voice is smooth, edged with amusement, but there’s a warning beneath it.
I don’t jump. Slowly, I lift my gaze to the doorway.
And there she stands.
Nyxara.
A vision of shadow and sin.
She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, exuding the kind of effortless authority that demands submission—or defiance. Her emerald eyes gleam, sharp as cut glass, holding thinly veiled irritation beneath their striking depths.
She looks unimpressed.
But gods, she’s stunning.
She’s clad in black lace and onyx-studded fabric, the delicate weave clinging to every curve of her tight, toned body. The bodice of her gown is adorned with glistening obsidian and deep violet stones, cut low enough to draw the eye to the swell of her breasts, barely contained beneath the intricate lace.
Her long, midnight-dark hair cascades past her waist, thick and silken, moving with the soft sway of her body. Strands catch in the dim green torchlight, glinting with a subtle sheen, as if woven from the night itself.
Her lips—full, sculpted, tempting—press into a thin line, irritation warring with amusement. The sharp planes of her cheekbones, the regal arch of her brow, the way her claws tap idly against her arms—she is a study in controlled violence, barely leashed power, and ruthless, dark beauty.
Heat coils low in my stomach.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
"Good morning, Dragon Queen," I purr, letting the water collapse harmlessly back onto the stone.
Her expression doesn’t change.
But I see the slight tightening of her jaw, the subtle flare of her nostrils—small, telling signs that she’s not nearly as indifferent as she pretends to be. Then, with a flick of her wrist, the lock on my cell shudders, the metal glowing faintly before clicking open.
No keys. No struggle. Just raw power.
Her heeled boots click softly against the stone as she steps inside, her movements measured, deliberate, predatory. Like a beast entering its den, knowing it has already won.
"You’re toying with things you shouldn’t," she says, voice low, controlled.
I tilt my head, feigning innocence. "Am I?"
Her gaze flicks to the damp floor before settling back on me.
"You think I wouldn’t notice?"
I let my lips curl into a slow, knowing smile. "I was merely testing my accommodations. You wouldn’t want me to be uncomfortable, would you?"
Her wings twitch at her back, just barely.
Interesting.
She moves—fast.
One second, she’s across the room. The next, she’s in front of me, towering over me, her claws grazing the inside of my wrist. Heat radiates from her skin, her magic pulsing like a living thing, barely contained.
"Try that again," she murmurs, voice like silk wrapped around steel.
My pulse flutters. Not in fear. Never in fear. But in something else. Something far more dangerous.
I tilt my chin up, smirking. "What exactly are you going to do, Nyxara?"
Her claws trail lightly over my skin, just enough to send a shiver down my spine. Her power lingers in the air, thick and commanding, pressing in from all sides, daring me to submit. So, naturally, I do the opposite. I inhale slowly, gathering the last traces of moisture left in the air, willing it into something more. My power stirs, sluggish but still obedient—and I use it. My skin tingles as the shift happens, the summoning effortless, natural. Thick, smooth tentacles unfurl from the air around me, coiling languidly at my sides.
Nyxara stills.
I let my smirk widen.
One of the pearlescent limbs slithers forward, curling around her thigh, slow and teasing. Her claws dig into my wrist—not enough to break skin, but enough to warn.
"Careful, little siren," she growls, voice like embers in the dark. I hum, tilting my head, watching her carefully.
"Why?" I murmur. "Are you afraid you might like it?"
Her pupils flare.
A slow, sweet thrill rolls through me.
But before I can push further, a sharp gust of air sweeps through the room. I whip my head to the side just in time to see Morrin swoop in, talons latching onto the metal basin, yanking it from the floor.
I jerk as the last drops of water are ripped from my reach and immediately, the strain on my magic worsens. It dulls, as if someone has closed their fingers around my throat, pressing, squeezing. I snarl, stepping back, tentacles retracting as I fight the sudden weakness. Morrin flaps to Nyxara’s shoulder, his black wings rustling, the basin clutched tightly in his grip.
"Slippery thing, isn’t she?" he muses, his voice low and knowing.
Nyxara doesn’t smile.
But she doesn’t need to. I feel her victory like a physical thing in the air between us. I exhale sharply, rolling my shoulders, forcing myself to appear unfazed.
Fine.
She’s won this round. But the game is far from over. Nyxara steps closer, reaching out, and before I can react, she grips my chin between her claws. Her touch is cold, sharp, demanding attention. Her emerald gaze burns into mine.
"You think you’re clever," she murmurs, voice low, dangerous.
I smirk, slow and deliberate.
"I know I am."
A muscle feathers in her jaw. Then, just as quickly, she releases me, turning sharply, her cloak billowing behind her as she strides toward the door.
"Stay in line, Vaela," she says, her voice calm, measured—a command, not a request.
I lick my lips, tilting my head as I watch her turn, her cloak billowing behind her like a storm cloud.
A slow, taunting smile curves my lips. "And if I don’t?" I murmur, my voice silken, dripping with defiance.
She pauses.
Just for a second. It’s quick, barely noticeable, but I see it. The tension in her shoulders, the subtle twitch of her claws. She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t reply. She just vanishes into the shadows of her castle, leaving behind the ghost of her magic, thick in the air—a lingering pulse, a phantom touch.
I inhale slowly, rolling my shoulders, stretching my limbs despite the dull ache of my dampened power. My lips curve into a smirk, because we both know I won’t behave.
And something tells me… she doesn’t really want me to.
After all, I know women like her. Strong, untouchable, believing themselves to be above the pull of desire, above the mess of need. I’ve had my fair share of women—queens and commoners alike, hands tangled in my hair, lips parted in breathless pleas, their thighs trembling beneath the slow, deliberate drag of my tongue.
And unlike men—men with their fumbling hands, their arrogance, their incessant need to take and take without knowing how to give—women are a storm to be unraveled.
Women are shameless in their pleasure, not seeking conquest, but demanding worship. And gods, do I love to worship.
And Nyxara?
Oh, she may pretend she’s different, above it all, but I see the way she looks at me. The way her claws twitch and her dragon fire burns when I get too close.
She’s fighting it.
And I can’t wait for the moment she stops.