Page 15 of Crowned In Venom

15

ANYA

T he palace is awake.

Even before I hear the distant crash of doors thrown open, the hurried whispers in the halls, I feel it.

Tension. Sharp, electric.

Something has happened.

Something that has the guards on edge, that has the servants stepping carefully, keeping their heads low.

Something that has Varkos’s power bleeding through the walls like a wound torn open.

I do not yet know what it is.

But I will.

Because this is an opportunity.

And I do not waste those.

It doesn’t take long.

By the time I reach the upper halls, a guard finds me—his face pale, his stance too rigid, as if afraid to breathe wrong.

"Lord Varkos has summoned you."

A statement. Not a request.

I do not hesitate.

Not because I am afraid.

But because I want to see him.

I want to see what has shaken him.

What has unleashed the storm I feel brewing in the air.

The moment the doors to his chamber open, I understand.

The smell of blood lingers—faint but unmistakable.

The curtains are still ruffled from movement. The air too thick, too heavy.

And him.

Varkos stands in the center of the room, bare-chested, his dark robes hanging loose from his hips. His hands rest on the table before him, the muscles in his forearms tensed, his knuckles streaked with something darker than ink.

The candlelight flickers against his skin, illuminating old scars and new violence.

He does not look at me immediately.

He doesn’t need to.

His presence is a force. A storm contained only by sheer will.

A storm I intend to stoke.

"You’re bleeding," I murmur.

He lifts his gaze—slow, measured, burning.

"It is not my blood."

A dangerous answer.

One meant to intimidate.

But I have spent too long watching him, learning him.

And I know that tonight, he is unstable.

Tonight, he is wounded in ways he does not know how to name.

So I step forward. Slowly. Carefully.

"Should I assume you called me here for a reason?" I ask.

He watches me. Unmoving. Unblinking.

Then—a slow exhale, a smirk that does not reach his eyes.

"I should kill you," he says, voice dark, low. "It would make things simpler."

I tilt my head. "Then why don’t you?"

The question hangs between us.

Unanswered. Unacknowledged.

Because we both know the truth.

He does not want to.

And that infuriates him.

I take another step forward.

The distance between us is razor-thin now.

"If I were behind whatever has you like this," I murmur, voice soft, careful, "I would be long gone by now."

His jaw tightens.

"You assume I wouldn't find you?"

I smile. Slow. Small.

"You assume I wouldn’t let you."

His hand moves before I can register it.

Not to strike. Not to hurt.

But to grip my wrist, tight, unyielding.

His thumb presses against my pulse point. Measuring. Feeling.

And for the first time tonight, I feel it—his hesitation.

His body burns with fury, but his grip?

His grip is restraint.

"Do not play games with me tonight, Anya."

His voice is a growl, a threat edged with something else.

Something too close to desperation.

Something I can use.

I lean in, letting my breath brush his skin. "Who said I was playing?"

A sharp inhale.

A tightening grip.

The tension coils tighter.

"You want answers," I whisper. "You want someone to blame."

His eyes are violet fire, cutting into me like knives.

"And you want to give me one?"

I hold his stare.

Then, slowly, I nod.

"Not all your men are loyal," I say. "Not all your fighters are afraid."

I see it—the flicker of something dark in his gaze.

He already knows this.

But he does not want it to be true.

Because if it is, his empire is crumbling from within.

"You’re suggesting a traitor," he murmurs.

I tilt my chin slightly. "I am suggesting you look where you least want to."

A beat of silence.

His fingers loosen—not fully, but just enough.

"And where is that?"

I inhale, slow. Purposeful.

"The ones you keep in chains the longest," I say softly. "The ones who have no reason to love you—only fear you."

It lands.

The way his shoulders tighten, the way his breath changes, sharpens.

I have set the fire.

Now, I watch as it burns.

His grip tightens again, but this time, it is not in anger.

It is something worse.

Something dangerous.

Something that coils in my stomach like a warning and a promise.

"You're too clever for your own good," he murmurs.

I let my lips curve—just enough.

"And yet, you keep me here."

A beat.

Then, he moves.

Sudden, fast—his body pushing against mine, my back hitting the cold stone wall.

A gasp catches in my throat, but I do not fight.

I do not flinch.

Because I knew this would happen.

I wanted it to.

He glares down at me, his breath warm, too close.

"You should be afraid of me, Anya."

I exhale, slow.

Then—a whisper.

"Make me."

His fingers graze my throat, his body caging mine in, and for the first time tonight, I see it?—

The storm breaking.

Control fracturing.

And I know?—

We’re over the battle of words.

It will be something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

Something I am ready for.