Page 5 of Claimed In Darkness
5
NAIRA
I wake to the warmth of him.
It stains the silk sheets, the heavy air in the chamber, the warmth seeping into my bones. Dark spice, leather, something old and ruinous.
I jerk upright.
Too fast. Too sharp. My head spins, my stomach lurches, and then I remember.
The poison.
My hands tremble as I grip the mattress beneath me. The fine fabric is too smooth, too luxurious, too wrong.
I am in his bed.
I taste copper on my tongue from where I bit my own cheek in my sleep. I welcome the sting, the pain grounding me in something real.
This is his way of reminding me who owns me now.
Not as a lover. Not even as a pet.
No—he wants me as a pawn.
The door creaks open, and I know it’s him before I even see him.
Zephiran Zacria.
Dark Elf prince, tyrant in silk, bastard in every fucking sense of the word.
He doesn’t greet me. He doesn’t say my name. He just stands there, studying me like a prized blade he’s just acquired, one that needs sharpening.
His lips curl. “Good. You’re awake.”
I throw a pillow at his face.
He doesn’t flinch. The bastard just catches it, smirking like I’m a feral cat baring my teeth.
“I see you’re still feeling feisty,” he muses.
I bare my teeth. “Untie the fucking leash, and you’ll see just how feisty I can be.”
His smirk deepens. He likes this. He likes me like this—angry, raw, bristling.
“Get dressed,” he orders, tossing something onto the bed beside me.
I glance down.
Silk. Sheer. Red.
No.
I glare at him, at the flimsy excuse for clothing. “What the fuck is this?”
He cocks his head, amused. “Your disguise.”
My blood turns to ice.
“What disguise?”
He steps closer, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring this moment. The moment he gets to tell me how much worse things are going to get.
“The High Council expects me to arrive in the capital with a companion,” he says smoothly. “A personal indulgence.”
My stomach twists.
No. No.
“You’re insane,” I say, breathless with rage. “You want me to pretend to be?—”
“My pleasure slave,” he finishes for me.
The room tilts.
I lurch to my feet, chest heaving, hands shaking. My body knows what that means. I’ve seen the collared girls, the ones draped at the feet of Dark Elf lords like ornaments.
I’ve seen what happens to them.
“You can go fuck yourself,” I whisper.
Zephiran laughs.
Not a kind sound. Not amused.
No—he is delighted by my horror.
“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice,” he says, reaching out—too fast—gripping my chin between his fingers.
I snarl, thrashing in his grasp, but his hold tightens. His fingers press into my skin, claiming, searing.
“You belong to me now, little fox,” he murmurs. “And you will do exactly as I say.”
I try to pull back. He doesn’t let me.
His thumb drags over my bottom lip.
Mocking. Testing. Tasting.
A slow, suffocating heat spreads through my veins, and I hate him for it.
“I will slit your throat for this,” I vow, voice raw.
Zephiran smiles.
Smiles.
“Do it.”
He finally lets me go, turning toward the door like he’s already bored of my resistance. “Get dressed,” he calls over his shoulder. “Training starts in an hour.”
Training.
I hate the way my body thrums at the word.
I know what it means.
It means he’ll teach me how to move like his pet. How to talk like his whore.
How to be the thing I despise the most.
A slave.
He sits on a throne made of black marble, sprawled with the lazy arrogance of a man who has never had to ask for anything.
I stand before him, clad in red silk and rage, feeling more naked than if I had been stripped bare.
The fabric clings to my skin, thin as a whisper, slipping over my curves like a lover’s hands. The slit along my thigh is indecent, the neckline obscene.
I burn with fury.
He devours me with his eyes.
“Spin,” he orders.
I don’t move.
His gaze darkens. “Spin.”
I fucking hate him.
But I turn, slow and seething, letting him see the way my body has been wrapped up like a gift for him to unwrap.
I hear the satisfied exhale he gives.
I wish I had a knife.
“Good,” he murmurs.
I snap my head up, meeting his ravenous, blood-red gaze. “If you ever touch me in public, I’ll make sure you lose your fucking hand.”
His smile is slow. Dangerous.
He stands. Stalks toward me.
I refuse to step back.
He drags a single finger down my exposed collarbone.
I go still. Too still.
“Who said I needed to touch you,” he purrs, “when I can make you squirm just by looking?”
He’s right.
The heat between us is unbearable. It presses into me, every space, thick and suffocating.
I can barely breathe.
He knows.
I hate that he knows.
His fingers slip beneath my chin again, forcing me to look at him. His mouth is so close.
“Do you know what I think, little fox?” he murmurs.
I swallow. “What?”
His lips brush just over my ear.
“I think you’ll enjoy pretending to be mine.”
Something inside me snaps.
I slap him.
Hard.
His head whips to the side, a sharp crack ringing through the chamber.
A moment of silence.
He laughs.
A deep, dark fucking laugh.
I hate how beautiful it sounds.
“Oh, Naira,” he muses, dragging a thumb over his bruising cheek.
“You’re going to make this so much fun.”