Page 17 of Claimed In Darkness

17

NAIRA

T he moment we return to Zephiran estate, I move. Silent. Shadow-swift.

I run.

The masquerade’s filth still clings to my skin—the aroma of spiced, sweet wine, the press of silk, the lingering feel of his hands on my body. My ribs feel tight, breath too shallow, the meaning of what just happened pressing against me like a vice.

He chose me over power.

The thought festers.

I should not care.

I should not fucking care.

But the way the court watched him, the way Orvian smirked like he knew Zephiran had just made a fatal mistake?—

I shake my head. Irrelevant.

There’s still time.

I can still get out.

The halls are mostly empty, draped in flickering torchlight, shadows pooling in the corners. I know how to move unseen. I know how to avoid patrols, where the guards stand post, where Zephiran thinks I am too afraid to wander.

He is wrong.

He has always been wrong about me.

My bare feet whisper against the floor as I slip past the grand staircase, through the narrow servant corridors, the ones that smell of wax and damp stone, the stench of bodies that aren’t meant to be seen.

A door.

Half-cracked. Leading to the alley beyond.

The sharp bite of night air rushes over my skin, lifting the hem of my silk dress, pulling at my hair as if the wind itself is desperate to take me away from him.

I step forward?—

Then I stop.

A sudden, vicious lurch in my stomach.

A reminder.

I haven’t taken the antidote.

The poison still lives inside me.

One month.

That’s all I have. One month before it eats me from the inside out, hollowing me out like a fucking corpse. And he has the cure.

Zephiran.

That bastard.

My fingers twitch at my sides, curling into fists, nails biting into my palms.

I should keep going.

I should.

Yet, I linger, my breath turning shallow.

Because it's not just the poison.

Something is wrong with him.

I don’t know what.

I don’t know why I even care, but I do.

The way his body tightened back in the masquerade, the flicker of something unreadable in his expression before he forced me to leave.

The way I have felt it before—the strange, unnatural stillness, the fleeting moments when his fingers tense as if they want to tear into his own skin.

Something lurks inside him.

It is surfacing.

I should go. Leave while I can.

But the thought of never knowing?—

Never finding out what, exactly, is inside him, unraveling?—

It twists inside my ribs like a knife.

Before I can decide?—

A shadow moves behind me.

Too fast. Too close.

Cold, unyielding steel clamps around my wrist before I even have time to breathe.

I lash out, twisting, snarling—but he’s already there, behind me, against me, a wall of heat and muscle and damning cruelty.

He hisses near my ear, smooth and mocking.

"Going somewhere, little fox?"

His grip is iron, his fingers wrapping around my pulse, pressing, claiming, branding.

I snap, fighting, shoving, but it only makes him tighten his hold, only makes his breath dip lower, the bastard savoring every second.

"You really don’t learn," he murmurs.

I don’t waste time snarling a response—I move.

My knee jerks up, aiming for his gut, but he’s expecting it.

He catches my leg midair, turning the momentum against me.

I crash into him, his arm snaking around my waist, yanking me flush against his chest. The silk of my dress is too thin, the heat of his body pouring into mine.

The bastard chuckles, low and pleased.

"You're predictable," he says, voice edged in dark amusement.

I buck against him, but he doesn’t let go.

Not until I feel the way his fingers brush over the collar at my throat, the chain still tucked beneath the folds of silk, his fucking mark on me.

"You think you can just leave?" he murmurs. "After everything?"

His breath is warm, infuriating, too close to my jaw.

I stay rooted on the spot.

I see it now.

The tension in his grip isn’t just anger.

It’s something else.

Darker.

He is not well, and he’s aware of that I somehow know.

I need a moment; a single chance. Just a crack in the game, a shift in the balance, something neither of us understands but feels anyway.

As fast as it came, he buries it beneath mockery.

"You must think I’m stupid," he purrs, fingers trailing lower, spreading warmth where there should be rage.

I bare my teeth. "I think you’re a fucking lunatic."

He laughs.

The sound of it makes my hackles rise.

But I hate myself more for not hating it enough.

"You’re not wrong," he admits, almost amused.

Then—he lets go.

Just like that.

His touch vanishes, his heat a ghost against my skin.

The sudden absence feels like a slap.

I stumble back, chest heaving, eyes burning.

He watches me, shoulders still too tight, jaw tense, something unreadable lurking beneath his crimson gaze.

I expect him to punish me.

To drag me back, to prove, again, that I am nothing but his prisoner, his little pet.

Instead, he just shakes his head, soft laughter curling from his lips.

"Run again," he says, voice dangerously smooth.

I keep my stance, keep my breathing even.

I don’t dare to look away from.

His smirk widens.

"Go on," he murmurs, a whisper of something twisted and thrilled.

"You won’t make it past sunrise."

I glare, my heart slamming against my chest.

He turns before I can find my voice, vanishing into the corridor, leaving me standing there?—

With the door still open.

With freedom just a few feet away.

And yet?—

I remain standing in his territory as if I’ve lost my ability to run.