“The sea must know your medal,” she murmured. “It must taste your worth, so your song might be added to the histories.”
And then, for a moment, there was silence.
That timeless melody grew hushed. Subdued.
Haunting in its weightless absence.
Nerissa’s voice dropped to a subsonic pulse, her lips forming around a single word. A summons. “Attend.”
The gloom rippled.
Nyxarion.
He separated from the shadows.
Biolume flaring to life as he was summoned—broadcasting his outrage. His seething contempt.
Kore could see it in the molten silver glare. Feel it when that scowl locked onto her and grew more savage.
“Stake your claim, Nyxarion Korrides,” Nerissa commanded, and that was all.
Deep in his chest, Nyx snarled. His massive length flexing, he surged forward and closed the distance between them.
“Give only your essence,” Nerissa snapped, voice sharp, “or forfeit the trials to my lord sovereign before your chance to claim her even begins.”
Jaw working, a tempest brewed in his molten eyes as he battled the ache Kore could feel where she was hollow.
And for a moment, Kore thought he would refuse.
That he would sweep her into his arms, as he had so many times before, and take her. Consequences be damned.
His hand shot out, landing on her nape, thumb pressing against the pulse beneath the corner of her jaw. There was fire in his touch, a desperate, possessive heat that ignited Kore’s blood.
“You are mine,” he hissed, dragging her close. “My living flame. So sweet. So eager. I will stop at nothing to claim you, Kore.Nothing.”
Hands trembling, she reached for him. Crying silently as the pain of need bloomed.
Because she knew what came next.
His venom.
The burn.
Exposing a wicked barb, Nyxarion’s thumb caressed the blade of her cheek. Sweeping back to trace her bones. “Breathe, sweet Siren,” he rumbled, “for you were always meant to drown.”
Helplessly, Kore arched toward him. Her body pulled taut. Aching for what she couldn’t have.
The barb slipped beneath her skin with a tenderness that undid her.
Utterly.
Not the savage puncture of selfish need—those brutal encounters that had marked her as prey.
This was different.
Reverent.
His thumb traced the entry point as venom bloomed through her veins, slow and searching, as if Nyxarion himself didn't quite know what he was doing. As if the act was tender and against his nature.
