Page 11 of Claimed In Darkness

11

NAIRA

T he blood won’t come off.

I scrub until my skin burns.

Until my fingers ache, raw from the harsh scrape of my nails against my flesh. The water in the basin is dark now, a sickly shade of red and ruin, swirling down the drain in lazy, mocking spirals.

But it’s still there.

Clinging to me.

Seeping into me.

It’s in the creases of my knuckles, under my nails, inside the fine lines of my palms. Like it belongs there.

Like I belong to it.

I grip the corner of the marble basin, my breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The room is humid, thick with steam, the aroma of rose-scented oils curling around me like a noose.

The slaves had drawn the bath for me the moment I returned. Like they knew.

Like they could smell the blood before I even stepped inside.

I bite my lip, forcing my pulse to steady.

I still hear it, though.

The wet, choking gurgle.

The way his body went limp.

The dagger—my dagger—slid through his flesh like it was meant to.

I stare down at my hands again.

I flex my fingers.

I feel nothing. I have this empty vortex inside me.

This is what terrifies me the most.

How can I feel nothing for a life that I’ve taken?

I slip into the bath, my skin stinging at the heat.

I sink down, letting the water swallow me whole, the warmth licking over my thighs, my stomach, my still-tainted hands.

I lean my head on the tub’s edge, closing my eyes.

I should feel remorse. I should feel guilt.

But all I feel is the ghost of Zephiran voice.

See? You were always mine.

My nails sink into my thigh, pressing hard, fiercer, stronger.

I want to feel something else.

Anything will do.

The sound of footsteps snaps my eyes open.

I go rigid as the air shifts.

The hairs on my skin rise.

Before I even see him, I already feel him.

Zephiran stands in the doorway, silent, watching.

His presence smothers the room, oppressive and thick, wrapping around me like chains made of shadow and silk.

I should tell him to leave.

I should demand my fucking privacy.

Instead, I just stare.

His eyes are glowing, blood-red and hungry, dragging over the surface of the water, over the sheen of damp skin peeking above the rose-scented steam.

I don’t cover myself.

I refuse to give him that satisfaction.

"Enjoying the view?" I murmur, my voice hoarse, empty.

A slow, amused hum.

He leans against the doorframe, his silhouette dark and fucking beautiful, framed by the dim glow of candlelight.

"Very much," he says smoothly.

His voice is softer than usual.

That’s dangerous.

It means he’s watching me too closely. Seeing too much.

My hands clench beneath the water.

"Get out," I say, sharper now.

Zephiran doesn’t move and continues to lock gazes with me.

Just moves his head, watching me with that infuriating smirk.

"If you wanted privacy, little fox," he murmurs, "you shouldn’t have let me break you in front of an audience."

Fucking asshole.

I lunge at him without a car, sloshing water over the tip of the bath as I reach for the nearest thing—a porcelain bottle of bath oil.

I throw it at his smug, infuriating face.

He catches it midair. Of course he fucking does.

Zephiran chuckles, tossing the bottle aside like it’s nothing. Like every struggle I muster is nothing.

"You’re still full of fire, even after all that," he muses, stepping further into the room.

I stiffen as he closes the gap between him and me.

As he kneels at the corner of the bath.

As he reaches for me, slow and deliberate, fingers ghosting over the water, over the ripples dancing against my skin.

I’m as still as frozen ice. But I burn.

With fucking rage.

His fingers brush over my wrist, and my body betrays me.

My pulse jumps.

My breath falters for a beat.

His eyes flicker, glowing with amusement.

"You’re still shaking," he murmurs, trailing his touch up, up, over my forearm, toward my collarbone.

I grit my teeth.

"That’s not fear," I bite out.

"No," he says, smirking. "It’s not."

Dumbass.

I jerk away, but he’s already there, already pressing his palm against my throat, catching my chin.

His thumb skims the hollow of my neck, lingering over the artery there.

"I should kill you," I whisper.

Zephiran smile deepens.

"Then do it, I’ll look forward to that day."

His grip tightens.

Not to hurt.

Just to hold.

Just to remind me that I won’t be able to.

We are not done.

I want to see him bleed the way I bled tonight.

I want to watch the light drain from his eyes and know?—

Know that he knew it was me who took it from him.

I exhale slowly, forcing my body to relax even as my skin screams from his touch.

"Do you think this is the part where you destroy me?" I murmur, letting my lips brush against his knuckles.

Zephiran eyes flicker.

He hesitates for a fraction of a second.

But I see the telltale signs.

I grin, slow and vicious.

He pulls away, standing, his composure back in an instant.

I fucking saw it.

That means he is not untouchable.

He is not unshakable.

I can shatter him, too.

"You’ll sleep in my chambers tonight," he says, his voice tight, controlled.

I tilt my head. "Afraid I’ll run?"

His grin is back, but there’s something sharper beneath it now.

"No," he murmurs, turning for the door. "I just like watching you squirm."

Then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him, and I finally let myself breathe.

The blood is gone now.

But I still feel it.

I still smell it.

I know—no amount of hot water will ever wash it away.