Page 18 of Claimed In Darkness
18
ZEPHIRAN
S he hasn’t run.
Not even with the door standing wide open behind her, the night air beckoning, the promise of escape curling through the corridor like a whispered temptation.
Instead, she stands in the dimly lit hall, breathing too fast, eyes too sharp, hands clenched at her sides as if she’s fighting a war inside herself.
I exhale slowly, my own exhaustion pressing against my ribs, the curse sinking claws into my spine.
I should leave her standing there.
I should walk away, let her simmer in her own indecision, let her wrestle with the realization that it was never me binding her here?—
It was always herself.
But I don’t leave.
I am too curious. There’s this part of me wanting to witness her struggle.
I want to know?—
What stopped her?
I turn back toward her, taking my time, enjoying the way her breath stutters when I close the space between us again.
The hall is quiet, too quiet, the only sounds between us the sharp inhale she tries to smother, the whisper of silk brushing against the stone floors, the slow, deliberate press of my boots as I trap her against the cold marble wall.
Her jaw tightens, her body rigid, but she does not retreat.
She does not cower.
The torches lining the corridor flicker, casting gold across her skin, painting her in defiance and fury, in something dark and intoxicating.
I brace one hand beside her head, letting the other trail too lightly, too deliberately down her arm.
"Why did you stop?"
The question is quiet, but sharp, sliding beneath her skin like a knife dipped in honey.
She remains silent, holding it in.
Her chest rises too fast, her lips press into a thin, furious line, her shoulders stiff with something not quite anger.
I could tear the words from her. Press harder, squeeze, force her to say it aloud.
But I want her to give it to me.
I want her to willingly admit it.
Her nostrils flare, chin lifting in the way it always does when she’s readying for a fight.
"You already know," she says.
I let my fingers skim over the curve of her shoulder, tracing the line of her collarbone.
The mark I burned into her is still there, hidden beneath the silk and shadows, but I know it aches.
She feels it deep in her bones.
The proof that she belongs to me.
My thumb brushes the artery at her throat.
She shudders. And there it is.
The crack.
The slip.
The thing I’ve been waiting for.
"Say it," I say softly, leaning closer to her.
Her breath is ragged, uneven, a war in every syllable.
"You poisoned me," she grits out, voice laced with hate. "I need the antidote."
I should feel victorious.
I should feel satisfied.
But I couldn’t. Her answer’s lacking. It’s not what I want to hear.
I know that’s only half the truth.
Her lashes flicker, and lips part, and I see the sharp inhale she tries to control.
There’s something else beneath her skin.
Something she doesn’t want to acknowledge.
Something she’s fighting with all her being.
"That’s not the only reason," I murmur, my voice sinking lower, softer, more dangerous.
She moves then, suddenly, violently.
Her hands press against my chest, shoving hard enough to make me take a single step back.
But not hard enough to push me away completely.
"You are the most insufferable bastard I’ve ever met," she hisses.
"Likewise," I say, because it’s true.
Her hands remain on me, fingers curled into the fabric of my tunic, like she forgot she was supposed to be shoving me away.
I drop my voice to something slow, deliberate.
"You should have run."
Her mouth parts slightly, words unsaid pressing against her tongue.
I see the exact moment she realizes the truth.
That I am right.
She should have escaped.
Instead, she chose to stay.
Her fingers tighten against my chest, not in defiance, not in anger—but in something raw, something unspoken, something both of us don’t want to explore.
She moves before I do.
She rises onto her toes, closing the distance between us in a single breath, her lips crashing against mine in a kiss that tastes like battle.
It’s not soft.
It’s not gentle.
It is a weapon.
Her teeth graze my bottom lip, a silent challenge, a demand that I answer with equal force.
I press her into the wall, one hand tangling in her hair, tugging just enough to make her gasp.
The sound makes something inside me snap.
I deepen the kiss, taking everything she’s giving, stealing everything she doesn’t realize she’s offering.
Her body is fire and defiance, silk and fucking sin, her pulse hammering beneath my fingers, the fight still roaring in her veins even as she kisses me back.
Just as suddenly, she breaks away.
Her chest heaves, lips swollen, eyes wild and furious.
Her breath is hot against my mouth.
"That," she rasps, "was a mistake."
I drag my thumb across her lower lip, watching the way she doesn’t pull away.
"You’ll make it again."
She stiffens, her eyes blazing with hate. She doesn’t like this truth.
I can see it, can taste it still lingering in the space between us.
It will be best if she leaves, but she remains on the spot.
She just stands there, breathing heavily, still so close.
Waiting.
For what?
For me to do it again?
For her to?
It doesn’t matter.
This is not over.