Page 31 of Claimed In Darkness
31
NAIRA
I expected this but conveniently forgot.
But expectation doesn’t soften the blow. Nothing could.
The moment Aereth steps closer to Zephiran, the moment her fingers graze his arm, the moment he lets her— something inside me snaps.
A slow, splintering crack.
Not loud, nor dramatic.
Just a quiet, insidious tear through the already fraying edges of whatever I thought we were.
This is proof.
That I was never supposed to matter. I just got carried away that night.
Whatever game we’ve been playing—whatever heat, whatever desperation we shared in the dark— means nothing.
She is here. And he is letting her touch him.
The moment I move, his eyes flick to me.
I refuse to stop.
I grip the reins of my horse, pulling back just slightly, creating distance between us.
Maybe ot enough for Aereth to care.
But enough for him to see it.
The rejection.
The quiet damn you in the way I straighten my back. I keep my gaze fixed on the road ahead, and I pretend I don’t feel the heaviness of his stare pressing into my nape.
Aereth is beautiful. Everything I am not.
She’s not the kind of beauty that exists in the ruins of war, in the shadows of the undercity, in the bloodstained hands of thieves and killers.
She is perfect.
The kind of delicate, ethereal perfection that makes people forget she was ever meant to rot in a grave.
She moves like a queen stepping into her kingdom. Her voice is soft, sweet, poison wrapped in silk.
She’s everything a man like Zephiran should want. Someone he was supposed to have.
Everything I will never fucking be.
Even now, even after everything that happened, there’s a part of me that still wants him to want me more.
A stupid, fucking weak part. A part I want to rip out of my own chest.
Aereth is not the enemy.
The enemy is him.
But the man culprit is me. For ever thinking I was different.
For ever thinking there’s something more between us.
His posture shifts.
The tension in his shoulders, the stiffness in his grip, the way he doesn’t fully respond to Aereth’s touch.
Because he’s aware that I’m pulling away.
He knows this is different. That I’m not snarling, not snapping, not fighting back.
That terrifies him more than anything else because I have always fought back.
Even when he poisoned me.
Even when he used and took me.
But now, I am done playing his game.
The power inside me flickers, a pulse of dark heat curling in my veins.
It is silent. But it is not asleep.
This thing is watching and waiting for the perfect timing to make havoc.
And I can’t help but wonder?—
What would happen if I let it consume me?
What if I stopped fighting, if I let the hunger take over, if I let this thing inside me become something more?
Would it make me strong enough to crush them both?
Will this make me strong enough to never feel this way again?
I swallow hard, digging my nails into my palms.
No. Probably not here.
There’s this shift in the air, in the world.
Something is coming. It’s way worse than the ache in my heart.
And when it comes?—
I will not be the one left bleeding.
The night stretches too long, the road ahead winding through unfamiliar territory.
We set up camp in a clearing near the river, torches casting flickering gold along the rough-hewn stones.
I stay away.
I sit by the water, letting the cold air bite at my skin, letting the sounds of the night drown out the murmurs from the fire.
I try to not look. Not to eavesdrop.
But then—he comes to me.
Slow. Quiet.
Like a man stepping through a battlefield where he does not know if the next step will kill him.
"You're avoiding me."
I keep my gaze on the river, refusing to turn, refusing to let him see the war inside me.
"You noticed," I murmur, silence follows.
Then—a slow, sharp exhale.
His presence shifts, closer, heavier.
"You’re angry."
Not a question.
A statement. That alone makes me snap.
I stand too quickly, rounding on him, fists clenched, breath short.
"You think I have a right to be?" I hiss.
He doesn’t move.
He just watches me, eyes flickering with something dark, something unreadable.
I loathe the way he gazes at me like he already knows exactly how this will end.
I shove past him, but before I can leave, his fingers catch my wrist.
A shiver runs through me, an electric pulse of something too much, too dangerous, too real.
"Let me go," I whisper.
His grip tightens.
For a second, just a second, his expression crumbles.
And I almost believe he will say something that matters.
But he doesn’t.
Afterall, he’s Zephiran Zacria, and he never fucking chooses.
I wrench my arm free, stepping back, my heart racing as if killer is behind me.
I walk away, not looking back.
But his hand suddenly grabs me, haltiny my steps.
I turn to him. “What?”