Waves Will Crash

Gods, that was fun.

Silk sheets clung cool to sweaty skin. The ocean breeze spilled through the open balcony, brushing over them like praise. The air was thick with sea salt, candle wax, and the slow, golden haze of afterglow.

Yara purred something against someone's ribs, curling in with the self-satisfied grace of a cat who knew the whole world wanted her—and rightly so.

Malvor didn't answer. He was too busy smiling into the pillows, glowing with the smugness of a god who had orchestrated a divine seduction, pulled it off flawlessly, and looked sinfully good doing it.

And Annie?

She slipped back into the bed without a sound.

A whisper. A shift in the sheets. No hesitation. No words.

She moved like nothing had happened. Like everything had.

Malvor's arm reached for her instinctively, curling around her waist, dragging her into his side with a pleased hum. She settled there easily. Head on his chest. Breath soft. Even.

She had enjoyed it.

No—thrived.

She'd kissed Yara like she meant it. Touched him like she craved it. Her eyes had sparkled. Her rune had lit the room like it was made to.

That wasn't performance.

That was power. That was his Annie.

He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, still grinning.

"God of Mischief and threesomes," he whispered with delight curling at the edges of his voice.

Annie didn't answer.

Just curled closer.

Her hands were cold.

He didn't notice.

Yara did.

From her side of the bed, she watched the mortal girl with a half-lidded gaze—not judgmental, not concerned. Just… observing. Like someone watching a ship take on water from a safe, dry dock.

Not her ship. Not her storm.

Still… she'd seen that look before. Eyes open. Focus gone. The too-still breathing of someone trying not to be in their body. It was subtle. But it was there.

Malvor was snoring softly now. Drunk on magic and satisfaction, curled around Annie like a boy who'd thrown a parade and gotten laid in the same night.

Yara stretched, slow and catlike, wrapping one sheet lazily around her like a robe she didn't plan to tie. The room still hummed with power—lingering and low, like the echo of a spell that wasn't quite finished.

She didn't mind the silence.

Annie broke it eventually. Not with words.

With movement.

She slipped out of bed again. Careful not to wake him. Careful always.

"I just need a minute," she murmured.

The door whispered closed behind her.

She walked to the sink.

Stared at herself in the mirror.

The rune on her calf glowed soft gold. Her skin looked divine. Flushed. Perfect. Lips parted like a girl kissed to ruin.

She looked like everything Malvor had said. Everything Yara had praised.

She smiled at her reflection, slow and sweet. Practiced. Beautiful.

For half a second, she almost fooled herself too.

Then the weight in her chest reminded her—pretty was not the same as whole.

She felt like nothing.

She sat on the edge of the tub.

Stared at the floor.

Just a minute. That's all she needed.

Somewhere behind her ribs, the ache curled tighter. Not pain. Not grief. Just... rot.

Slow. Silent. Familiar.

Her body was perfect. The rune had activated. Magic had moved through her like blessing.

She had done what she was trained for.

Smile. Perform. Give.

She was the vessel. She always had been.

So why did she feel like a ghost wearing someone else's skin?

Malvor stirred, stretching with a pleased groan. His arm reached across the sheets instinctively.

She was gone.

Bathroom, he remembered vaguely.

His mind drifted, content and lazy.

He thought about the way Annie had smiled against Yara's lips. How she had laughed on the dance floor. How her magic had sung through his skin like a second heartbeat.

Gods, he loved her more every day.

He smiled.

She was still here.

Still here.

She hadn't cried. Hadn't bolted. Hadn't trembled. She'd curled into him like a lover should.

Which meant it worked.

No damage. No mess. No consequences.

Just strategy, executed flawlessly.

"You were incredible, you know that?" he whispered to the empty pillow beside him, still drunk on the illusion.

There was no reply.

He took the silence as agreement.

Yara was still awake.

Sitting up now, hair wild across her shoulders, the sheet around her like armor made of silk. She glanced toward the bathroom. Still closed. Still quiet.

Malvor was grinning again.

Still floating.

Yara sipped the silence like wine.

Oh, sweetheart.

He didn't even see it.

Annie was cracking. Not loudly. Not obviously. But in that slow, meticulous way that meant the next time would bleed.

The sheets rustled.

Annie returned.

Quiet as tide foam.

She slipped back into the bed like mist, barely there, barely real.

Malvor shifted in his sleep, curling toward her again. His arm fell across her waist, breath warm at her shoulder.

Still dreaming. Still smiling.

Yara didn't move.

She lay on her stomach, legs tangled in coral-colored pillows, gaze fixed ahead.

Awake.

Watching.

Not unkind.

Not invested.

Annie lay between them.

One hand resting lightly on Malvor's chest. One rib aching like a wound no one could see.

She stared at the ceiling, at the shimmer of ocean light bleeding through the walls.

She didn't blink.

Didn't move.

Didn't sleep.

Outside the walls, the tide pulled back again.

Gathering.

Waiting.

Waves will crash. They always do.