Page 15 of Claimed In Darkness

15

NAIRA

T he Capital is a beast with gilded teeth and a rotten heart.

It rises before me, a labyrinth of dark spires and winding streets, silk and darkness woven together in a masterpiece of cruelty.

The streets are lined with decadence and despair, slaves draped in fine chains, nobles laughing as they sip blood-red wine, whispers curling through the alleys like vipers waiting to strike.

And now, I am walking into the belly of it.

With him.

With Zephiran.

And worse—I am wearing his damn colors.

The gown is midnight blue, cut too low, clinging to my body in ways that make me feel exposed, on display, a trophy instead of a woman. The collar at my throat gleams under the soft glow of lantern light, the silver chain attached to it resting in Zephiran grip.

He leads. I follow.

Or at least, that’s what he wants everyone to think.

The entrance to the noble hall looms ahead, golden doors thrown open, spilling laughter and music into the night.

A masquerade.

A gathering of liars and monsters wearing beautiful things.

Tonight, I will be one of them.

Everything glows in this place.

Golden chandeliers drip with candlelight, the aroma of incense and wine thick in the surroundings. The hall is filled with bodies and masks, lace and leather, whispers and secrets hidden behind sharp smiles.

Zephiran leads me through the crowd like he owns the place. His presence is larger than life, dwarfing almost everyone else.

He holds my chain lightly, as if the metal itself isn’t a fucking insult, as if this isn’t a reminder of my place beside him.

He likes this.

He likes showing me off.

Letting them look. To wonder.

I should hate how good he looks in the dark embroidery of his tunic, how the soft candlelight flickers against his sharp cheekbones, how his black hair is pulled back just enough to expose the pointed tips of his ears—the mark of his lineage.

I should hate that I feel his warmth beside me, his presence branding my skin like something inevitable.

Instead, I let him lead me onto the dance floor.

If I am to play this game, I will play it well.

The moment he turns to face me, I see the challenge in his crimson eyes.

Let’s see how well you can pretend, little fox.

His fingers skim over my waist as he pulls me into position. Slow. Possessive. Intentional.

I bite the inside of my mouth, willing myself not to react to our closeness.

The music swells, a slow, sensual melody, the kind meant for lovers and liars alike.

We are both.

We move in time with the rhythm, our steps fluid, effortless.

I don’t dare look at him. Not at first.

I focus on the feel of the floor beneath my feet, the warmth of this place, the distant murmur of laughter and gossip.

Then his fingers press into my hip, dragging me closer.

"Eyes on me," he murmurs.

I grit my teeth but obey.

His grin is insufferable.

"Good girl."

I should break his nose for that.

Instead, I press closer, my lips brushing against his ear as I whisper, "You’re liking this too much."

His breath catches. Just for a fraction of a second.

That means I win for this round.

His grip tightens. His next step is sharper, forcing me to follow his lead, making sure I know that despite my little victory, he is still in control.

The world around us fades. The only thing left is him and me.

The war in his touch.

The fire in mine.

"You're learning," he murmurs, voice dripping with amusement.

I smile, slow and sweet with venom.

"That’s the problem with keeping a thief close," I whisper. "Eventually, she learns how to steal from you."

He chuckles, low and dangerous.

"And what have you stolen, little fox?"

I meet his gaze, my fingers tracing the length of his forearm.

"Your time," I say. "Your attention."

I let my nails graze his skin, just enough to leave a mark.

"Your patience."

His pupils dilate.

Perhaps I have him in the palm of my hand. I think I have shaken him.

His grip slides lower, his fingers ghosting over the bare skin of my back.

I freeze.

It’s barely a touch.

Barely a whisper of contact.

But my breath hitches, my skin tingling where he traces idle patterns against my spine.

I curse myself.

I curse him.

"You’re very good at lying," he murmurs.

His hand tightens, and suddenly, I am spinning, my back colliding into his chest as he holds me against him.

The movement is seamless, part of the dance, something no one would notice.

But I feel his breath against my neck, the slow, deliberate drag of his lips between my neck and shoulder blades.

"And yet," he whispers, "your body still betrays you."

My heart thunders.

I whip my head to the side, my lips brushing dangerously close to his.

"Then maybe you should stop touching me," I murmur.

His smile deepens.

"But then we’d both be lying, wouldn’t we?"

I twist out of his grip, ending the dance before he can take another inch from me.

I step back, forcing my breathing to even.

The song fades.

The world returns and I notice the nobles watching and whispering.

I turn from him, ignoring the smug victory in his eyes.

I may have lost this round.

But this isn’t over.