Page 19 of Crowned In Venom

19

VARKOS

S he thinks she understands me.

Thinks she can watch from a distance, playing her game with careful hands and clever words.

But she has not seen me like this.

Not yet.

Tonight, that changes.

Tonight, she learns.

The air thickens as we descend.

The torches along the walls flicker low and hungry, casting elongated shadows that stretch and twist like specters trapped in stone.

Anya walks beside me, silent, but her shoulders are tense.

She knows where I am taking her.

And she does not ask why.

Because she already knows.

This is a lesson.

A warning.

A reminder of what I am.

And what she will become if she is not careful.

The dungeon is silent when we enter.

The prisoner kneels in the center of the room, arms shackled above his head, his body a canvas of blood and bruises.

A single candle flickers from the far table, illuminating the tools laid out in precise, surgical order.

Blades. Whips. Hooks.

There is no need for extravagance.

Pain is the only language that matters here.

And tonight, Anya will speak it.

She stops at the threshold, just for a second.

It is a small hesitation—barely there.

But I see it.

I feel it.

I turn to her, stepping close, letting the weight of the space settle around us.

"You fed me the information," I murmur. "Now, you prove it."

She lifts her chin. "I told you what I know."

"That is not enough."

I reach past her, fingers trailing the length of the table, selecting a coiled leather whip.

Simple. Elegant. Cruel.

I press it into her palm.

Her fingers remain still.

Cold. Unmoving.

"Use it," I command.

A beat of silence.

She does not lower her gaze.

"I am not your torturer," she says softly.

But there is something else in her voice.

Something that is not resistance.

Not defiance.

Hesitation.

A battle waging within her.

And I intend to see which part of her wins.

"If you do not, it will be you."

I let the words sink in.

Let them coil around her throat like a chain.

A test.

A truth.

I do not need her to break him.

I need her to break herself.

She moves before she speaks.

Fast. Precise.

The whip cracks through the air, striking flesh with a sharp, biting snap.

The prisoner jerks, a strangled sound tearing from his throat.

Not a scream.

Not yet.

But it will come.

I watch Anya, not him.

The way she stills, the way her breathing tightens just before she looks at me.

Her grip on the whip is too controlled.

She is fighting herself.

I step closer, my voice a whisper at her ear.

"Again."

A pause.

She does not obey immediately.

So I press my fingers against the nape of her neck, just barely—a phantom touch.

A promise.

"If you stop, it will be you."

Her breath catches.

And then—the whip sings again.

Another strike.

Then another.

A slow, brutal rhythm.

Each crack of leather against flesh is a note in a song she does not want to play.

And yet, she plays it.

She learns the melody.

When she stops, her chest is rising and falling too quickly.

Her pulse thrums at the base of her throat, wild, unrestrained.

The whip is still coiled in her hand.

Blood beads along the prisoner’s back, a jagged red map of pain.

And yet—I am only looking at her.

Her fingers tremble.

Not from weakness.

From something else.

Something she does not want to name.

I take the whip from her, trailing my fingers over her wrist as I do.

She shivers, but not from the cold.

I smile.

"You hesitate," I murmur.

She does not answer.

"Good." I drag the coil of leather along my palm. "Hesitation is worse than fear."

She exhales slowly, trying to steady herself.

I do not let her.

"You have learned something tonight, little fox."

She finally meets my gaze.

"That you are a monster?" she whispers.

I laugh.

Dark. Low. Delighted.

"No," I murmur. "That you are not so different."

She does not leave immediately.

She should.

Instead, she lingers.

I see it in her stance, the way she still feels the heaviness of the whip even when it is no longer in her hands.

Something in her shifted tonight.

And she knows it.

The game between us is not the same anymore.

Because I have won something.

A piece of her.

Small. Barely noticeable.

But mine.

She turns, her silk dress whispering against the stone.

And just before she leaves, I let my voice cut through the silence.

"Sleep well, Anya."

She does not look back.

She does not need to.

Because we both know—she won’t.