Page 20 of Claimed In Darkness

20

ZEPHIRAN

T here’s no hesitation in Naria’s movements.

Not as the knife glides through flesh, parting muscle and tendon, slipping past the resistance of bone. Not as the surroundings fills with the wet, choking gasp of a dying man, his body convulsing against the floor before stilling into silence.

Naira stands above him, the dagger still clutched tight in her fist, knuckles white with the force of it.

The blood drips slow, thick, obscene, sliding over her fingers, pooling in the delicate creases of her palm. Some of it clings to her mouth, a single streak curling over the bow of her lips, stark against the smooth heat of her skin.

It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

And the most dangerous.

She does not shake, not even blinking.

It’s either she’s very clam, or in shock.

She breathes, deep, steady, controlled. As if she was meant for this.

As if she has stopped pretending otherwise.

The chamber is silent.

The High Council watches with rapt amusement, their sharp gazes drinking in the sight of their newest executioner, their newest pawn.

They expected her to hesitate.

They thought they would need to coax the monster out of her.

Fools.

Naira has always been a monster.

She just needed the right moment to prove it.

A slow, deliberate clap echoes through the chamber, snapping the tension into something razor-thin.

I know the sound before I turn.

Lord Zareth, the council’s eldest snake, lounging in his throne, his smirk a wicked curve against the dim glow of candlelight.

"Spectacular," he purrs. "She does not disappoint, Zephiran."

The amusement in his voice makes my fingers twitch.

I know this game.

I know what they see when they look at her.

Not a human.

Not a person.

A weapon.

Something they could wield. Something they could use against me, against my father, against whatever dark fate they are scheming in the bowels of this city.

Bringing her here was stupid choice.

I should have known this would happen.

But as I look at her, standing in the pool of her victim’s blood, head high, shoulders squared, eyes burning with something that looks an awful lot like victory?—

I don’t feel hatred.

I feel want.

Something base, something carnal, something I cannot afford to touch but ache to sink my teeth into.

This is the moment she changes.

This is the perfect timing she stops trying to be the girl she used to be.

The moment I know, without a doubt, that I will never let her go.

"Clean her up," Zareth continues, rising from his throne. "And then bring her to us. We have much to discuss."

Nairaposture locks, her fingers still slick with red, her lips still painted in someone else’s death.

I don’t give them a chance to say anything else.

I move before they can, stepping toward her, grasping the bloodied wrist that still clutches the dagger.

She does not resist.

She does not fight.

I guide her from the chamber, past the dead weight on the floor, past the leering eyes of the council, past the knowledge that they think she is theirs now.

She isn’t.

She is mine.

The private bathing chamber is silent except for the steady drip of blood against stone.

I stand at the threshold, watching as she steps beneath the cascade of hot water, her dress soaked through, turning black against her skin, the fabric clinging in ways I should not be noticing.

The silence is deafening.

She only scrubs.

Her hands work over her arms, her throat, the ridges of her knuckles, but the blood does not leave easily.

It never does. Not the kind that stains you on the inside.

I move before I think better of it, stepping behind her, reaching for the basin of oils set beside the bath.

Her shoulders tense at the change in the air.

She knows I’m here.

She just doesn’t stop me.

The aroma of cedar and spice fills the space between us, curling into the steam as I dip my fingers into the oil, rubbing it between my palms before reaching for her.

She still doesn’t stop me.

Not when my hands slide over her shoulders, working the soap and oil into her skin, rubbing slow, deep circles into the tense line of her back.

Her breathing is too steady.

She is trying to control it.

Trying to pretend I am not touching her.

"Why didn’t you hesitate?" I murmur, letting my fingers graze the back of her neck.

She inhales. Not much.

But enough.

"You already know," she says.

The same words she spat at me last night.

And she is right.

I do know.

She did not hesitate because she is no longer the girl who would have.

She has already crossed the threshold. I led her here myself.

She followed.

I should tell her to fight it.

To fight me.

To resist. To run. To do anything but stand here, dripping in blood and steam, letting me fucking touch her like she is mine to soothe.

But I can’t.

Instead, I press my lips to her bare shoulder, a slow, deliberate drag of my mouth against salt and heat.

Her breath stutters.

She should pull away.

Instead, she tilts her head just slightly, exposing more of her throat, a silent admission that she is already too far gone.

I do not hesitate.

I bite.

A slow, teasing graze of my teeth against her pulse, enough to make her tense beneath me, enough to make her know?—

There is no going back now.

She moans, a sound that makes something dark and unholy snap inside me.

She loathes me.

She wants me.

She doesn’t know how to choose between the two.

So I choose for her.

I turn her in my grip, forcing her to face me, to see the hunger burning in my fucking chest, to know?—

This is her fate now.

Not as a prisoner.

Not as a pawn.

But as mine.

Her lips are still painted red.

I take them anyway.