Page 15 of Brine and Bone
"Asterion," he spat, fury thickening the syllables. Making them hiss, cutting and sharp. "Bold of you," he growled. "Slithering into my reef while I breed what's mine."
Inclining his head, the Shallow King acknowledged the transgression without apology or shame.
Gills flaring crimson, biolume surging electric cyan, Nyxarion's spines flared a furious warning. Flicking in a deadly fan as his glare traced the damage etched into Thalos' pale perfection.
And then a slow, pleased smile touched his lips as his eyes raked over Thalos' body. Memorizing every mark. Inspecting each and every scar shimmering in silver contrast.
Fins that were notched. Scales that had once gleamed with a mirror polish were sullied, bore silver seams where scale had been torn free and regrown a little… crooked.
And just there, tucked just beneath his frigid heart, scar tissue carved into his ribs where Nyxarion's barbed spines had punched through cartilage and lodged behind bone. Asymmetry. Muscle that had knit together wrong.
Tarnished.
Nyxarion's lips peeled back from his teeth. "Look at you," he drawled, a low, droning hum laced with cruel amusement. Dripping contempt. "The ocean's favorite son. Marked up." Claws tightening on Kore's hip, his cock gushed another obscene pulse of sperm into her already over-full channel. Drunk on the sight of his superior might. "Not so perfect anymore, Asterion. You're looking a little… jagged, despite Nerissa's efforts."
Seemingly unbothered by the barb, Thalos' gaze skipped past the defensive flare of the very spines that had nearly ended him. Ignoring the territorial snarl and the callous jab against the reveredVireliiwho had died to save him.
Instead, frosty blue eyes traced Kore's edges. Gleaming with the reflection of the precious thing still draped across Nyx's chest.
"How is it? The child." It was an unhurried thing, his question. Polite to the point of inspiring nausea as the other folded his hands at his lower back and drifted above them. Fins flared to hold himself still in the sluggish, ancient current.
Calm.
As if he wasn't violating sovereign territory just by breathing the poisoned tide.
"She seems to be adjusting, for such a delicate little thing," he continued. Measured and light. "Despite carrying such a prize in watersthishostile to life. Tell me," he sang, head tilting, silvery hair floating around his perfect face, "does she eat well?" The faintest hint of mockery curled at the edge of his lips. "Or do you keep her too…occupiedto concern yourself with matters so paltry as her health?"
A muscle in Nyxarion's jaw flexed. Bunching around the fury. The audacity of such a question.
But he said nothing.
Merely crushed Kore tighter to his chest, willed his knot to deflate, and didnotlook at the Trident.
She made a soft sound of protest. Something unconscious and muffled, a complaint pushed through her gills as she fought to wake. Perhaps sensing his fury through the tension vibrating through every coiled inch of his massive frame.
Trapped.
The reality was a shard of something colder than even the Shallow King himself, for Nyxarion could not defend her—them—from the predator poised to strike. Not now, while he was pinned in place by the very creature he'd sacrificed everything to claim. Did not mistake the Shallow King for a broken rival listing through the current, slinking away in wretched defeat.
Thalos was an apex predator, unmoored by restriction. Cymareth hanging idol at his hip, while the Trident was meters outside of Nyxarion's reach.
The Shallow King had very nearly won the Crucible. The evidence of that murky victory was still carved into Nyxarion's flesh, too. Bisecting his tattered gills that hissed with every breath. Every muscle in his left shoulder still thick and stiff, the range limited as the tendons worked to heal.
A victory that had been real, but narrow—measured in hapless luck. By spines that had struck true by good fortune of desperate rage more than skill.
And Thalos knew it.
They both did.
Nyxarion's jaw clenched until the tendons in his neck stood shadowed and rigid.
A storm of scarcely restrained violence pulsed through his blood. Heating his temper with an impotent blade that wished for nothing more than to watch the light drain from those glacial, infuriating eyes. And then, "You didn't swim through anoxic waters to ask after her appetite, Thalos. Carnal or not. What do you want?"
The question was flat, stripped of elegance and posturing, because cunning required room to maneuver. Leverage. And Nyxarion had none.
For a moment, Thalos was the embodiment of infuriating, aristocratic calm.
And then, "No," he admitted. "I didn't." Drifting closer, a slow, deliberate arc that telegraphed his intention, Thalos spread pale hands. Shrugging. "Your bride is…" He paused, as if considering. "An enigma. Fragile and volatile in equal measure." Silver hair shifted when he tilted his head, and Thalos' glacial eyes fell once more to the female clutched tight to Nyxarion's chest. "She harbors the Queen's Lightning," he said, and smiled.Faint amusement flitting across his face. "It cost me the Gauntlet."
