Page 12 of Crowned In Venom

12

VARKOS

I feel her gaze before I see it.

A slow, deliberate thing.

Not the wide-eyed stare of a slave awaiting orders. Not the hesitant, wary glance of someone measuring the depth of their chains.

No.

This is something else.

A hunter’s gaze.

A gaze that measures, calculates, waits.

And I should be wary.

Instead, I find myself craving it.

I stand at the edge of the training hall, my hands resting against the smooth railing of the balcony that overlooks the fighting pit below. The air is thick with sweat and blood, the sound of fists cracking against flesh echoing through the chamber.

The fighters move like animals—graceful, violent, desperate.

And from across the room, Anya watches.

Not the fight.

Me.

She thinks I do not notice.

She is wrong.

"You’ve been staring for a long time," I say without turning.

A pause.

Then, soft footsteps behind me.

She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she moves closer, her presence a whisper of warmth just behind me. Close, but not too close.

Not reckless.

Calculated.

"I did not think you’d mind," she says, her voice smooth, amused. "You like being watched."

I smirk. "Do I?"

"Yes." A beat. Then—"Just as much as you like watching others."

I turn at that, slow and deliberate, bracing my hands against the railing as I face her.

She stands just within reach, her expression carefully composed, her emerald eyes reflecting the torchlight in flickers of green fire.

"Is that what you think?" I murmur.

Her lips curl. "I don’t think, my lord. I observe."

I chuckle, low and dark. "And what have you observed?"

She lifts her chin slightly, tilting her head. "That you don’t trust me."

I arch a brow. "Would you trust you?"

Her smile does not fade. "No."

That earns her a laugh—a real one, slow and edged with something sharp.

"At least you're honest," I murmur.

She steps closer, her movement fluid, effortless. She is playing a game, testing the edges of power.

She lifts a hand, slowly, her fingertips trailing lightly over the rail beside mine. Not touching—just close enough for the heat of her skin to linger.

"I could say the same of you," she says softly.

My amusement does not fade, but I do not miss the way she watches me—not with fear. Not with submission.

With calculation.

She is learning me.

Studying my weaknesses, my tells, my flaws.

I should put a stop to it. Should remind her who is in control.

Instead, I lean in, just slightly.

A breath of space between us.

"You think you understand me, little fox?" I murmur.

She does not pull away.

"I think I am beginning to," she says, her voice a whisper against my skin.

And that is dangerous.

I move quickly.

One second, she stands near the railing. The next, her back is against it, my hands braced on either side of her, caging her in.

She does not startle.

She expects it.

Anticipates it.

And that makes me smile.

"You enjoy testing me," I murmur.

She exhales, slow and measured. "And you enjoy being tested."

My fingers curl around the railing beside her, my knuckles grazing the silk of her sleeve.

"And if I decide I am done playing?" I ask.

She lifts a brow. "Then you’re lying."

Gods, she is fearless.

Or reckless.

Or both.

I shift closer, my voice dropping to something lower, something meant only for her. "Tell me, Anya. What is it you want?"

She looks up at me, and for the first time, she does not answer immediately.

The flicker of hesitation is brief, a crack in her perfect mask.

And I know.

She does not know what she wants.

Or rather—she does, and she knows she should not.

And I cannot decide which truth is more dangerous.

Her fingers flex against the railing. I can feel the tension in her, the tight coil of defiance and restraint.

I should step back.

I should remind her that I am not the one being played.

Instead, I reach up, brushing my fingers along the side of her throat.

A whisper of contact.

A slow, dangerous test.

She does not move.

But her breath catches.

And I feel it, the way her pulse quickens beneath my fingertips.

My lips curve. "Careful, little fox."

She exhales sharply, but her voice does not waver. "You mistake curiosity for carelessness, my lord."

"And you mistake patience for mercy."

She finally moves then, a shift of her weight, a deliberate act of regaining control.

I let her.

I let her slip just out of reach, let her step past me with a slow, measured turn of her body.

But I do not miss the way she looks back.

Not with fear.

Not with submission.

With something else entirely.

Something that sends heat curling low in my stomach.

Something that makes me crave the next move in our game.

I watch her disappear into the shadows of the corridor beyond.

And I do not follow.

Not tonight.

Because I am beginning to realize something?—

I do not want to chase her.

I want to let her run.

Because eventually, she will come back to me on her own.