Page 13 of Claimed In Darkness
13
NAIRA
T he blade feels good in my hand.
Cold. Solid. Real.
Unlike everything else in this goddamned place. Unlike the silk dresses he forces me into, the silver collar biting against my throat, the gilded cage he has locked me inside.
This—this is mine.
I curl my fingers around the hilt, steadying my breath. The knife is small, light enough to conceal, sharp enough to do damage.
It will have to be.
Tonight, I’m going to kill him.
I move through the shadows, my bare feet making no sound against the marble floor. The aroma of dark spice and steel lingers in the air, the unmistakable presence of him saturating every inch of this place.
He sleeps too easily.
Too comfortable in his power.
Another reason to add as to why I despise him.
The sheets are dark, the color of spilled ink, tangled around his waist as he lies on his side, bare from the waist up. His body is carved of darkness and sin, a lethal thing even in rest. The moonlight kisses every scar, every ridge of muscle, every mark of war and cruelty written into his skin.
His breath is slow. Steady.
Unbothered. Relax, even.
I tighten my hold on the dagger, stepping closer, slow and silent, until I stand at the very edge of the bed.
This should be easy.
One quick thrust to the throat, straight through the artery.
A clean kill.
Fast. Effortless.
But my hands freeze.
I watch him, my pulse going crazy in my throat, and I feel it—the hesitation.
The weakness.
I should want to see his blood spill. But instead, all I see is his mouth, parted slightly in sleep, the way his dark lashes fan against his sharp cheekbones.
The way he looks almost human.
I berate myself for noticing.
I lift the knife.
His eyes snap open.
Damn it.
I react on instinct, lunging for the kill. But he’s already on the move.
He grabs my wrist midair, twisting sharply, yanking me down onto the bed.
The next thing I know, I’m on my back, my wrist pinned against the sheets, the knife ripped from my grasp and tossed to the floor with a dull clatter.
Zephiran looms over me, all heat and danger, his breath fanning against my cheek.
"Now, now, little fox," he purrs, voice thick with amusement. "That wasn’t very smart, was it?"
I snarl, twisting beneath him, but he’s too strong. His grip tightens, his fingers pressing just hard enough to send a clear message—I could break you.
I arch up, using the leverage to slam my knee between his legs.
He dodges, barely.
A sharp, dark chuckle follows.
"Feisty even in failure," he murmurs, pressing his weight against me.
The bastard is bare.
Heat and muscle and shadow, pressing into every inch of me, a slow, deliberate punishment.
I thrash, but the friction between us makes it worse.
His body is scorching, his skin smooth, and I hate that I notice.
"Let me go," I growl.
He grins. "Why? So you can try again?"
His grip shifts, fingers sliding to my throat, holding, pressing, claiming.
A test.
A fucking game.
His mouth is too close, his scent too overpowering, and fury coils in my stomach like a living thing.
I should be afraid. But I am not afraid of him.
I am terrified of the way my body responds.
Afraid of the heat curling low, of the slow, dangerous pull tightening between us like a noose.
His red eyes flicker, tracking every shift in my breath, every tiny reaction.
"You want to kill me?" he muses, dragging his lips just over my jaw. "Then do it properly next time."
I snarl, my nails digging into his wrist. "I will."
He laughs. Low. Dark. Sinful.
"You’re cute when you lie."
I hate that he’s right. I had my chance. I hesitated.
His fingers loosen, just a fraction, his breath brushing over my lips.
"Try again tomorrow, little fox," he whispers.
Slowly, he releases me.
I roll away instantly, putting as much distance between us as possible.
I don’t look at him.
I don’t acknowledge the way my skin still tingles where he touched me.
I just breathe.
Shaking.
Lava rolling under my skin, burning me inside out.
I realize?—
Perhaps I’m not trying to kill him.
Maybe I’m trying to kill whatever this is.