And behind her?
Driving a pathetic tendril between her legs, a short little cock rutting between swollen, glittering folds.
He saw it all in painful, cutting precision.
Her debasement at the hands of another.
Not aPelagorn.
A man.
Eyes narrowed to slits, Nyx snarled and let his rage boil the tide. Kore,his creation, defiled by hands that reeked of rot.
She cried out again, calling to him through gills that had only just split her skin. Not yet healed. Gills that hadn’t even tasted the sea before that grief-song spilled through the rift.
It was a haunting, dreadful melody born of pain and aching despair. It shook the water. Ached deep in his marrow. A keening so pure, it scraped at the edges of his soul and dragged a slurry of muddy anguish through his veins.
His every muscle tightened as he surfaced without a sound. Watching as her back arched when she braced against every thrust, helpless but to take it.
Every impact of flesh against scales twisted his wrath into a seething foam as her cunt swallowed something less than what it had been remade to take. Each shudder of jerking hips, each hiccuping, painful breath, one that would be repaid.
Nyxarion Korrides, first Sovgerine of the Black Sea, raised his trident.
The sea responded.
Current twisting, the waves lifted at his command. Trident singing with the scream of old magic, he issued a call older than bone. Older than the kings of the deep or the open ocean.
It was a call to war.
The shaft vibrated in his grip, humming with an obsidian echo of the violence churning in his blood. Seething in time with the slapping squish of flesh on scale as his bride was rutted like day-old carrion.
It was a summons, an answer to every trespass man had made against the high seas.
He slammed the trident into the current… and hefted the three prongs into the air once more.
Drawing the poisonous waters up before sending them down.
Again.
And again.
Over and over and over, until he’d summoned a black wall of vengeance tipped in foaming white caps.
It rose from the deep.
Carried forward without wind or moon or tide, frothing and foaming. The messenger of a debt to be repaid.
It was wrath.
Retribution.
The man fucking his bride couldn’t tear his greedy eyes from the stolen treasure milking his gummy little prick. Didn’t have time to turn, or blink, or beg.
But she did.
Watching with wide, black eyes, her gaze traced the wall of water with something that tempered the rage squalling in Nyx’s black heart, and fed it something… wicked.
And then she smiled.
