Page 2 of Crowned In Venom
2
VARKOS
T he human is stunning—too stunning. I should not have let my eyes linger on her this long, yet here I am, watching her disappear down the hall, her steps too controlled for a slave who has just been shackled and stripped of her freedom.
Anya.
A name that should be meaningless. Yet when I had said it in my mind, it settled on my tongue like a forbidden taste.
I exhale, rolling my shoulders back, forcing my body to relax. A mistake. I cannot afford to be distracted by something so… delicate.
Except, she is not delicate.
She is defiant in a way that is not overt, but deeply woven into the way she carries herself. That slow, calculated tilt of her chin. The measured way she speaks—never groveling, never truly submitting.
A snake that slithers close, feigning stillness, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
I smirk to myself.
Perhaps it has been too long since I have had a game worth playing.
Still, I do not trust her.
And I do not like that I cannot bring myself to look away.
I turn to the guards still waiting in the chamber. “Leave,” I order, my voice a blade of command. They bow and scatter, their armor clanking against the marble floors as they file out.
I take my time following.
I am in no hurry.
She should be the one to sweat, to wonder what awaits her in my chambers.
She should fear me.
And yet, something tells me she does not.
___
The halls of House Vortalis are imposing, cold—sharp angles of black marble and silver veins that seem to pulse with an eerie glow. Magic lingers in the walls, old and restless. Much like my mother’s reach.
A reminder.
I must be careful with this one.
When I enter my chambers, she is waiting.
She stands by the fire, its glow licking over the delicate curves of her body, illuminating the defiant set of her shoulders. The servants have done as I ordered—her chains have been removed, and she has been given finer clothes, silk the color of deep garnet, the fabric pooling at her feet, draped just enough to suggest vulnerability without giving it freely.
She looks like a queen trapped in the wrong kingdom.
She does not turn when I approach.
I let the silence stretch, savoring it, letting it coil around us like a noose.
Finally, I break it.
“You are quiet.” My voice is soft, deliberate. A knife’s edge gliding over bare skin.
She turns, slowly, gracefully—like a woman who has already weighed every outcome of this conversation.
“Should I fill the silence, my lord?” she asks, voice smooth as honey, yet there is venom buried beneath the sweetness.
I study her. She is baiting me.
I smile. “You seem to enjoy talking. I thought I would allow you the chance to prove how well your tongue can serve me.”
Her emerald eyes darken—not with fear, but with something sharper, something that presses against the line of danger without stepping over it.
“I have served many masters,” she says. “Each one thought they were the first to test me.”
She is not afraid to challenge me.
Interesting.
I step closer, closing the space between us, inhaling the faintest hint of her scent—not perfume, nothing artificial. Just her. Something wild beneath the polished exterior.
“Then tell me,” I murmur, my hand lifting, trailing along the soft line of her jaw, “how many of them lived to regret it?”
She does not flinch.
Does not blink.
Only tilts her head slightly, exposing the column of her throat—an offering or a dare.
“Most of them,” she whispers.
My blood hums.
This one will ruin me.
Or I will ruin her first.
I brush past her, moving to the heavy oak table near the hearth, where a silver goblet of spiced wine waits for me. I pick it up, swirling the dark liquid before taking a sip.
“I have seen many women like you,” I say casually, watching her from the rim of my cup. “The ones who think they can change their fate by playing games beyond their depth.”
She crosses her arms, the silk of her dress slipping slightly, revealing a hint of the pale skin of her shoulder.
“And I have seen many men like you,” she counters. “The ones who think they hold the chains when they are just as bound as the rest of us.”
A spark of laughter curls in my throat.
Bold. Dangerous. I like it.
I set the goblet down and move toward her again, slow and unhurried, like a beast circling its prey.
This time, she stiffens—just a fraction, barely noticeable. But I see it.
I inhale her reaction like a drug.
“You are right,” I say, my fingers brushing her wrist, tracing the delicate ridges of her pulse. “We are both bound in our own ways. But only one of us gets to decide how tightly the chains fit.”
Her breath shudders, just slightly, just enough.
She is not immune to me.
Good.
“I wonder,” she whispers, her voice dipping lower, almost seductive, almost cruel, “if you will still believe that when your own chains tighten around your throat.”
My lips part, a slow, predatory grin curving over them.
Oh, she is delightful.
“I look forward to finding out,” I murmur.
She lifts her chin, and in that moment, I realize—she is not prey.
She is the blade hidden in silk, waiting to be unsheathed.
And I have just wrapped my hand around the hilt.
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