Page 17 of Crowned In Venom

17

VARKOS

T he fire has burned down to embers, casting the room in low, flickering light.

She has not left.

And I have not told her to.

Anya lies beside me, half-covered in shadow, her auburn hair spilling over the silken sheets. The air between us is thick, weighted by everything that happened—and everything we refuse to name.

She should be sleeping.

Instead, she watches me.

I feel her gaze before I see it.

The way her eyes trace the sharp edges of my shoulders, the curve of my ribs, the scars etched into my skin like a history written in blood.

She has never asked about them.

And yet—tonight, she reaches.

Her fingers hover over a long, jagged mark across my torso, hesitating.

A test. A question she does not ask with words.

I should stop her.

I don’t.

Her touch is a whisper against my skin.

Light. Careful.

Too careful.

I let her explore, let her fingers trail over old wounds, as if she is trying to map the pieces of me I have long since forgotten how to feel.

"You don’t flinch," she murmurs.

"Pain is an old companion."

She tilts her head. "So is loneliness."

My jaw tightens.

She cuts too close.

I catch her wrist before she can go further, my grip firm, but not punishing. Not yet.

She does not pull away.

Does not look away.

That, more than anything, is what unsettles me.

"You are growing bold," I murmur, my thumb brushing over her pulse. Slow. Deliberate.

She exhales softly, but her heartbeat betrays her.

"Maybe I was always bold."

"Maybe." My grip tightens slightly. "Or maybe you are just learning that I will let you get away with it."

She smiles—a slow, knowing thing.

"And why is that, my lord?"

I should tell her the truth.

That I am letting her too close.

That her presence is a distraction I cannot afford.

That I should have sent her away the moment I realized her fire would burn me.

But I don’t say any of those things.

Instead, I release her wrist, letting her fingers brush over my scars one last time before I pull away.

She studies me, waiting for something.

A sign. A word. A permission I will not give.

So I do what I always do.

I retreat.

I push myself up, reaching for the silk robe discarded at the edge of the bed.

"Running?" she muses, shifting onto her elbow, watching me with amusement that does not reach her eyes.

I smirk, slipping into the fabric, tying the belt a little too tightly.

"Only cowards run."

"And yet, you seem eager to put distance between us."

She is baiting me.

And it is working.

I turn slowly, stepping toward her, watching as her breath hitches, just slightly.

I trail my fingers along the curve of her jaw, tilting her chin just enough to make her look up at me.

"Distance is a game you should not wish to play, little fox," I murmur. "Because you will always be the one to lose."

She should shiver. She should shrink beneath me.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she leans in, just enough to make me wonder if she is the one setting the trap.

"Then stop playing," she whispers.

And for a moment—just a breath, just a sliver of time—I almost do.

I could take her again.

I could pull her beneath me, make her forget that there is a world outside these walls.

I could let her trace every scar, let her steal pieces of me I did not think I was willing to give.

But that would be a mistake.

Because this—this thing between us—is not just want.

It is something darker. Heavier. More dangerous.

It is power and surrender, hunger and restraint, the constant pull of war disguised as touch.

And I am not ready to lose it.

Not yet.

So I do what I must.

I step back.

I watch the flicker of disappointment that crosses her face, the way she shields it just as quickly.

She thinks she is in control.

She thinks I am the one resisting her.

But the truth is—I am only waiting.

Because soon, she will come to me.

And when she does, there will be no more pulling away.

No more space between us.

Only ruin.

And I will welcome it.