Page 19 of Claimed In Darkness

19

NAIRA

T he taste of him still lingers on my lips when we enter the High Council’s chambers.

I loathe that it does.

I abhor that my body remembers, that my breath still hitches when I think of the way he felt against me—unrelenting, devouring, as if he had been waiting for that moment as much as I had been dreading it.

I still feel his fingers in my hair, the bruising press of his grip against my throat, the way he stole that moment from me before I could stop it.

Most of all, it destroys me that I let him.

The way I fucking kissed him back.

My hands clench at my sides as I push the memory down—deep, buried beneath the sharp edges of my fury.

I can’t afford to dwell on this.

Not when we are standing in the heart of the High Council’s lair, surrounded by monsters in silk and shadows, their predatory gazes scraping against my skin like the blade of a dull knife.

Zephiran walks ahead of me, posture pristine, arrogant, exuding the same dark confidence he always does, but I’m of what lies beneath.

I see it.

The tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch at his sides, how his breath isn’t quite steady.

Whatever happened between us back in the corridor, it left a mark on him too.

That is dangerous.

If I am beginning to see the cracks in him—how long before he starts seeing mine?

The chamber doors groan open before us, revealing the High Council seated at their elevated thrones.

The room is massive, lined with black marble pillars, silver banners bearing the sigil of the ruling houses, torches casting long, flickering shadows against the obsidian walls.

At the center, on a dais above us all, sit the ones who hold the true power in Protheka. In Orthani.

The King with his council.

The ones who decide who lives.

Who dies.

Who suffers.

Their eyes land on me first.

Of course they do.

I am the anomaly in the room.

The human.

The pet standing beside one of their own, unbowed, unbroken, unafraid.

They do not like it.

I feel their disdain overflow, the tension crawling over my skin like an infestation of spiders.

But I refuse to lower my head.

The leader among them, a Dark Elf draped in robes the color of dried blood, leans forward, his mouth curling at the edges in a way that makes me want to carve it off his face.

"So," he muses, his voice a slow, slithering thing. "This is the one you hold so dear, Zephiran?"

The words are deliberate, poison wrapped in silk.

They are watching him now, just as much as they are watching me.

Zephiran does not react, at least not outwardly. His expression remains a mask of bored indifference, as if he is already tiring of this conversation.

But his fingers twitch again.

I doubt anyone else notices. Only me.

"You have brought her before us for a reason," another council member speaks, this one female, her voice soft yet cruel, a blade dipped in honey. "Tell us, Zephiran. Why?"

Silence follows. A heartbeat of silence too thick, too heavy.

Then—he does something that makes my breath stop.

He turns to me and I see the risk written in his eyes.

He should not have brought me here. But even if he didn’t bring me, they will seek him out to ‘take care of me.’

We both know it.

"She is useful," Zephiran says smoothly, turning his gaze back to the council. "You question her worth, and yet, she has already proven herself. She fights. She kills. And she does so without hesitation."

A lie.

I hesitated.

But they don’t need to know that.

The leader hums, tapping a ringed finger against the arm of his chair. "Is that so?" His eyes flick back to me, interest sharp as a sword. "Then perhaps… she would not be opposed to proving it again."

A chill slithers down my spine.

Zephiran posture goes rigid.

"Choose a target," the councilman continues, voice rich with amusement. "Let us see for ourselves how… useful she truly is."

I feel the shift in Zephiran before I see it.

A split second of hesitation. A flicker of tension in his jaw.

It is not fear.

No, Zephiran does not fear for me.

He fears for what this means.

I beat him to the response.

"If you want a body," I say, voice steady, sharp, unyielding, "then give me a fucking blade."

The chamber goes silent.

Zephiran head turns toward me, something unreadable flashing in his expression.

The councilman laughs. The sound is rich, delighted, like he has found a new game to play.

"How charming," he purrs. "You do not even ask who you are to kill?"

"Does it matter?" I say, lifting my chin.

The amusement deepens.

Then—a single flick of his wrist.

The doors to the chamber open once more.

A guard steps forward, dragging a bound figure into the room.

My stomach knots as I see the blindfolded face, the torn clothing, the trembling shoulders of the one they have chosen.

A human.

One of my own.

A test.

This is a trap.

The council wants to see what I will do.

Will I hesitate?

Will I refuse?

Will I prove them right?

I breathe in, trying to not let myself feel.

In order to survive, I need to throw morality out of the window.

This is about survival.

If there is one thing I have learned, it is this?—

Survival always has a price.

"Give me the knife," I say.

This time, it will be another’s life for my own.