The Crash

Yara's private suite was carved into a cliffside grotto, its walls semi-transparent and softly glowing, pulsing with pale blue like moonlight held underwater. Outside, the ocean stretched in endless dark velvet, waves crashing against the cliff face in rhythmic, low thuds.

A heartbeat.

A warning.

The bed wasn't a bed—it was a bloom of living coral and velvet, delicate and obscene in equal measure. Floating lanterns hovered mid-air, swaying with the tide's unseen rhythm, veils of sea-silk dancing like ghosts.

Music hummed through the space, barely there, warm and wet like breath against the skin. The scent of ocean blossoms hung in the air—too sweet, too much, cloying as honey left out in the sun.

Malvor leaned against the edge of the coral bloom, shirt open, grinning like a god mid-worship. There was salt in his hair and wine in his veins and stars in his eyes.

Yara stood at the center of the bed, half-undressed, radiant. Her body moved like water—slow, inviting, dangerous. She stretched with deliberate grace, like she knew she was being watched and wanted it. Malvor's gaze followed every motion, pupils blown wide, mouth parted just enough to make Annie's chest ache.

"She's unreal," he whispered. Not to Annie. Not really. Just to the air. To himself. As if watching worship become lust in real time.

Annie saw that.

She stored it.

He didn't notice.

Because right now, all his attention was sinking.

Not into her.

Into Yara.

The goddess turned and smiled—hooked a finger at them both.

"My chaos twins," she purred. "Let's see what divinity tastes like."

Yara pulled her in first—bare hands and hungers, her mouth a sigh pressed to Annie's throat. Her skin was soft. Her lips tasted like salt and citrus and something dangerously addicting.

Malvor was behind her in an instant, arms around her waist, his mouth at her neck like he'd missed her for years. He groaned when he kissed her, low and hungry. His hands didn't fumble. They remembered her.

"You're everything," he murmured.

The night blurred.

Heat. Laughter. Skin.

Malvor's touches were reverent. His kisses landed like praise and promises.

Yara's mouth found hers again, hot and open, commanding.

You know what to do, Annie told herself.

Moan. There.

Tilt your head.

Match her rhythm.

Don't forget to breathe.

It wasn't hard.

She'd learned to mirror pleasure perfectly. She'd learned to look convincing even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.

She let her breath stutter just enough. Let her hips roll to the pace Yara set. Her hands roamed like she meant it.

Malvor's voice—low and wrecked—whispered both their names as his fingers tangled in Annie's hair. His lips found her collarbone, lingered there like he needed to feel her pulse.

He looked up at her with soft wonder.

"Gods, Annie… this is perfect."

She smiled.

Perfect.

Yara pulled Annie down with her, hair wild and tangled across velvet coral. The goddess laughed as Malvor pressed kisses down her spine, dragging his teeth just enough to make her arch. Yara looked over her shoulder at Annie, pupils dark, voice low.

"You're better than I imagined."

Annie kissed her like it mattered.

Like she believed it.

Yara's hand slipped between her thighs.

Malvor moaned her name—"Annie." It wasn't playful anymore.

It was real.

And just like that—

she was gone.

Not physically.

But something inside her pulled back. Like the tide before a crash. Like a girl climbing inside herself and shutting the door.

Her body kept moving. She responded. She even finished—at least, the part of her they touched did.

The rune flared in a burst of gold and sea foam, divine magic flooding her like a victory.

She felt nothing.

Malvor collapsed beside her, breathless, glowing. His fingers brushed her ribs with something like awe.

Yara pressed a kiss to her shoulder and pulled her closer.

"You're doing so well," someone said.

Annie blinked.

Make it look like love.

She rolled into Malvor's side. Kissed Yara's cheek. Let her fingers trace lazy patterns across a goddess's hipbone.

"Thank you," she said, sweet and soft.

Yara tilted her head slightly.

Not suspicious. Just... curious.

Her hand slid gently along Annie's cheek. Thumb pausing at her jaw, brushing the corner of her mouth.

Testing.

For what?

She wasn't sure.

But Annie didn't flinch. Didn't break.

She smiled like she meant it.

Yara paused. Then kissed her again—brief, satisfied.

Not my storm to swim through, she thought.

Malvor reached for Annie's hand. Twined their fingers together like an anchor.

"That was…" he started.

"Amazing," she said, cutting in gently. "It really was."

She didn't look at him.

She didn't need to.

She already knew what he wanted to believe.

Malvor's smile deepened. He squeezed her hand. Whispered something soft against her hair that she didn't hear.

Couldn't.

She was too busy holding up the mask.

Annie stood gracefully a few minutes later, still glowing, still perfect. She moved toward the edge of the room with a small, sleepy smile and murmured something about needing air.

Not rushed. Not suspicious. Just enough to look like softness.

Yara watched her go. Said nothing.

But her eyes lingered.

Longer than they should have.

Malvor didn't notice.

He was too drunk on magic. On pleasure. On the idea that this worked.

That this had brought them closer.

That this hadn't cost anyone anything.

Annie walked slowly toward the edge of the veil-draped balcony and let the ocean air hit her face.

She didn't tremble.

She didn't cry.

She just let the salt sting her skin and told herself:

You're safe now. You're not on the altar. You're not a temple girl anymore.

But the thing was—

she hadn't needed to fake it like this in years.

And gods, wasn't she still so good at it?