Page 4

DEPTHS OF DARKNESS

ISLA'S POV

Consciousness crawls back through layers of crushing pressure and liquid darkness, dragging me up from depths that should have collapsed my lungs, liquefied my bones, and generally turned me into the ocean's most disappointing soup.

But I'm breathing. Impossibly, ridiculously breathing air that tastes of salt and something else—something that makes the venom in my bloodstream sing with the enthusiasm of a reunion choir.

I'm suspended in an air bubble that gives physics the middle finger while existing where no atmosphere should survive.

The water around me pulses with bioluminescent patterns, alive with alien intelligence that watches, evaluates, and probably calculates the worth of its prize like the universe's most intimidating appraiser.

My body aches with the bone-deep exhaustion that follows venom injection, but something fundamental has shifted in my biochemistry.

The familiar burn along my nerve endings has changed, evolved into something that feels less like poison and more like.

.. integration. As if the kraken toxin and my human biology have finally sat down at the negotiating table and hammered out some terrible peace treaty.

"Awake at last."

The voice resonates through water and air both, carrying frequencies that vibrate through my ribcage, settle in my bones, and make something deep in my belly clench with involuntary recognition that I absolutely do not appreciate.

I force my eyes open, blinking against bioluminescent displays that pulse in rhythm with my elevated heartbeat like the world's most ominous mood lighting.

He hovers before me in the water, and every cell in my body screams contradictory messages—run, submit, fight, surrender, live, die, maybe file a formal complaint with the universe about unfair distribution of overwhelming presence.

This is what apex predation looks like when it chooses to be seen, not the glimpses of tentacles I caught through dying ship windows, but the full terrible architecture of evolutionary perfection.

His humanoid torso rises from the water like some ancient god of the depths decided to make a personal appearance, easily seven feet of perfectly proportioned muscle sheathed in midnight-blue skin that darkens to near-black at the extremities.

Golden eyes study me with an intelligence that makes my stomach drop—not animal cunning, but the calculated assessment of something that has spent considerable time learning the topology of my weaknesses, mapping the coordinates of my destruction with the thoroughness of a very dedicated stalker.

But it's the tentacles that steal whatever breath I have left.

Eight of them move through the water with liquid consciousness, each thicker than my torso and covered in specialized sensory nodes that pulse with their own bioluminescent language.

They don't writhe or thrash like mindless appendages—they move with purpose, coordination, the deliberate grace of limbs controlled by a mind far more complex than I've ever imagined and definitely more complex than I'm comfortable dealing with right now.

Bioluminescent patterns flow beneath his skin in intricate spirals and whorls, hypnotic displays that speak of royal bloodline and ancient authority.

The light pulses in rhythm with his heartbeat, with mine, creating a visual synchronization that feels like the first whisper of biological colonization—which is exactly as alarming as it sounds.

"The infamous ghost smuggler." His mouth curves in what might be called a smile if it weren't for the predator's teeth revealed in the expression, sharp and white and absolutely designed for things I don't want to think about. "I have been hunting you for quite some time, Isla Morgan."

He knows my name. Of course he does, because apparently my decade of careful anonymity was about as effective as a screen door on a submarine.

My real name, not the dozen aliases I've worn like discarded skin over the years.

Ten years of evading capture, and he's been watching me all along.

Studying me. Learning my patterns with the patience of something that measures time in geological epochs rather than human heartbeats.

"You're him." The words scrape from my throat like broken glass, each syllable a small act of rebellion against the paralysis threatening to consume me. "Neros. The Leviathan."

The name tastes like impending doom with a side order of really, really bad life choices.

His eyes gleam with what might be pleasure at the recognition, golden irises contracting to predatory slits that track my every micro-expression like I'm a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope.

"Your reputation precedes you as well. Ten years of defying the Oceanic Sovereignty.

Countless omegas stolen from their proper biological destiny.

An impressive record of futile resistance. "

Futile. The word detonates in my chest like a depth charge, revealing the hollow spaces where hope used to live before it got evicted by reality.

Six omegas escaped tonight because of my sacrifice.

Dozens more over the years. How is saving lives futile?

Though looking at him—at the casual way he maintains this impossible air bubble while suspended in crushing ocean depths, at the patterns of bioluminescence that suggest technology beyond my comprehension—I begin to understand the scope of my self-deception.

I've been playing chess with something that was already calculating the endgame before I made my first move. Hell, he probably knows how this conversation ends.

"Why?" The question emerges as barely a whisper, my voice small and human in this alien environment that makes me feel like a goldfish who's suddenly realized the bowl is much, much bigger than expected. "Why wait? You could have taken me years ago."

Something shifts in his expression, a flicker of what might be intellectual curiosity or predatory appreciation. Like a cat that's been playing with a particularly entertaining mouse.

"Because you fascinated me. A human omega using kraken venom as suppressants—do you have any conception of how biologically impossible that should be? The toxin flowing through your veins would kill any other member of your species within days."

His tentacles drift closer, and I catch glimpses of those specialized sensory nodes tasting the water around me, analyzing my scent, my pheromones, the chemical composition of my fear and the failing suppressants that can no longer mask what I am.

The scrutiny feels intimate in ways that make my skin crawl, as if he's reading the biochemical story of my transformation written in molecules too small for human perception.

"Yet you have survived for years, slowly poisoning yourself to maintain your illusion of freedom.

Such dedication to your doomed cause. Such.

.. creativity in your methodology." One tentacle extends toward me, not quite touching but close enough that I can see the intricate patterns of bioluminescence pulsing along its length like alien neural networks having a very colorful conversation.

"I found myself curious about the omega who would choose cellular suicide over biological submission."

Well, when he puts it like that, it does sound pretty dramatic. Though I prefer to think of it as aggressive lifestyle management.

The venom in my system responds to his proximity in ways that terrify me, shifting and adapting as if recognizing something of itself in his presence like a really unwelcome family reunion happening in my bloodstream.

Without my emergency suppressant injector—lost to the hungry ocean along with everything else I used to be—the chemical barriers that have protected me for a decade dissolve like sugar in acid.

"The venom itself proved fascinating," he continues, those golden eyes cataloguing every micro-expression of my dawning horror with scientific precision.

"You've been injecting yourself with hunting toxin from our specialized combat tentacles—the compound we employ to subdue resistant prey.

Most humans experience paralysis followed by systematic neural shutdown.

You've somehow adapted it to mask your omega scent signature. "

His head tilts in a gesture that might be admiration if it came from something human. "But the adaptation is destroying you, isn't it? The black patterns spreading across your skin—toxin saturation approaching lethal concentration. How long do you estimate you have remaining? Three months? Less?"

Three months. The timeline I've tried not to calculate, the countdown that drove me to increasingly desperate rescue missions, the math of my own dissolution that I couldn't quite face.

He sees it all, understands my biology better than I understand it myself, which is both impressive and deeply annoying.

"So I waited," he says, his voice carrying notes of satisfaction that vibrate through my bones like a tuning fork designed specifically to make me uncomfortable.

"Waited for you to reach the threshold where capture would constitute mercy rather than conquest. Where my intervention would represent salvation instead of mere territorial acquisition. "

Salvation. The word makes me want to laugh, but my throat constricts around something that might be a sob or possibly just existential dread having a moment.

He thinks he's saving me. This creature who has devoted months to hunting me, learning my routes and methods, orchestrating tonight's perfect trap—he believes he's offering rescue.

How very thoughtful of him.

"I don't want your salvation." The defiance comes easier than expected, drawing on reserves of hatred I've carefully cultivated over ten years of watching my people reduced to breeding stock. "I chose this death. I chose freedom over submission."