Page 33 of Claimed In Darkness
33
NAIRA
H is words should mean something.
They should fucking matter. But they don’t.
Because know men like Zephiran.
I know the way they take, consume, destroy and call it devotion.
He holds me too tightly, his fingers pressing into my skin like he’s trying to anchor himself to me, like I’m the only thing keeping him steady.
Like I am his. But he is not mine.
Not ever.
And I will not be fooled into believing otherwise.
He still hasn’t let me go.
His breath brushes my lips, hot and unsteady, like he’s fighting something inside himself.
Like he’s waiting for me to believe him.
To tell him that what he just admitted—what he just fucking realized—changes anything.
It’s too late.
I have already bled for him.
I have already let myself be consumed.
And now, there is nothing left to give.
I should rip my wrist from his grasp and drive my knee into his ribs and remind him exactly what I am.
But instead, I tilt my head just slightly, just enough to see the sharp cut of his jaw, the shadows dipping under his throat, the pulse hammering beneath his skin.
"You expect me to believe you?" I whisper.
His grip tightens.
A dangerous thing.
A desperate action.
"You already do," he murmurs.
The words sink into my skin, curl deep into me, threaten to make me soft.
He knows me too damn well, I abhor it.
Zephiran sees things I never want him to witness.
The bastard knows exactly what kind of power he has over me.
A power I never wanted to give.
A power I should have never let him take.
I exhale slow, my body refusing to pull away, my mind warring with my instincts.
"You let her touch you," I say again.
The words come softer this time.
Not a scream.
Not a demand.
Just truth.
He doesn’t deny it.
He just watches me.
Like a man watching the only thing he’s ever truly wanted slip through his fingers.
Zephiran fucked up, and he’s aware of it.
But that’s not enough.
It’s never enough.
Because Aereth still exists.
She is alive, whole, beautiful—exactly what I am not.
Even if he tells me I am different, that I am the one he wants, she will always be there.
A ghost between us.
A reminder that he has already loved before and she’s back.
And I do not believe in second chances.
Not for men like him.
Not for monsters who never learned how to choose.
My body feels too tight, too full, too wrong.
The power inside me hums, a slow, slithering thing curling in my bones, whispering to me, reminding me what I truly am.
He can claim.
He can take.
He can wrap his hands around my throat and press his lips to my skin and whisper my fucking name like it means something.
But he will never have me as I’m not his.
Because am already lost.
The relic has already taken me.
And when it claims what it’s owed—there will be nothing left of me for him to love.
I feel my pulse stutter, my vision flickering at the edges.
The magic inside me tightens, a slow coil of warning.
I probably don’t have much time left.
And neither does he.
I rip my wrist from his grasp, stepping back, putting ditance between us before I make a mistake.
Before I let myself fall back into the trap of his voice, his heat, his fucking eyes.
"Go back to her," I say, voice flat, controlled.
He stiffens.
"Naira—"
"Don’t." A sharp silence follows, and he remains rooted on the spot.
And for a second, I think he might fight me on this.
That he might drag me back, force me to listen, force me to fucking stay. But he lets me.
He knows that if he tries, I will rip my own throat out before I let him own me again.
If he says the wrong thing, I will put a blade through his stomach just to make myself believe I still can.
So he lets me go.
Lets me turn my back on him.
Lets me walk away because there’s no stopping me.