Page 20 of Crowned In Venom

20

ANYA

T he scent of blood lingers in my hair.

On my skin.

In my mouth.

It is not mine, and yet, it feels like it should be.

I walk through the corridors, my steps soundless against the cold marble, my pulse hammering too fast, too loud.

I need to breathe.

I cannot breathe.

The air is too thick, too heavy—clogged with the echoes of screams that still vibrate in my bones.

I do not remember how hard I swung the whip.

But I remember the sound.

The sharp crack of leather against flesh.

The way the man’s body jerked, spasmed.

The way I did not stop.

The way Varkos watched me.

The way he smiled.

My stomach twists, a nauseating churn of sickness and something worse.

I need to get out of here.

I do not remember how I reach my chamber.

But suddenly, I am inside, and the door is locked behind me.

My breaths come in short, frantic bursts, my hands shaking as I press them against the wooden frame.

I will myself to be still.

To be calm.

But my body betrays me.

The first heave comes fast, a brutal twist of my stomach that sends me to my knees.

I barely make it to the basin in the corner before I empty what little is left inside me.

Pain burns through my throat, my ribs aching as I gasp, cough, spit.

But it does not stop.

Because it is not just my body that is rejecting what I have done.

It is something deeper.

Something rotting inside me.

I collapse back onto the cold stone floor, pressing my forehead against it, letting its chill seep into me.

I am shaking.

Not from fear.

Not from weakness.

But from something worse.

From the realization that he was right.

Varkos’s words coil inside my skull, whispering, taunting.

"You are not so different."

And gods, he was right.

Because when I held the whip, when I struck the man?—

I felt it.

I felt something.

Not just horror.

Not just guilt.

Something darker.

Something that twisted inside me in ways I do not want to name.

It was not pleasure. No.

It was power.

And it terrifies me.

Because for a single moment, I understood.

I understood why Varkos wields pain like a weapon.

Because when you are the one holding the whip, when you are the one watching another break?—

You are the one who cannot be broken.

A sharp knock at my door sends my heart slamming against my ribs.

I do not answer.

I do not move.

For a moment, I pretend I am not here.

That I do not exist in this place, in this skin that suddenly feels foreign, unfamiliar.

But the knock comes again.

This time, the door opens.

I jerk upward, instinct kicking in, reaching for the dagger hidden beneath my pillow.

But it is only a servant.

One of the younger ones, her eyes wide, fearful.

She hesitates in the doorway, as if she knows she should not have come.

But then, softly?—

"My lady, Lord Varkos requests your presence."

I laugh.

It bursts out of me, bitter and sharp, curling at the edges like something feral.

Because of course he does.

Of course he wants to see me.

To see what he has done to me.

To see if I have shattered.

But I am not shattered.

Not yet.

I press my fingers to my temples, forcing the remnants of nausea back, forcing my mask to slide back into place.

The strong girl. The survivor.

I inhale, slow.

"Tell him I will come."

The girl hesitates.

Then bows, scurrying away like a frightened rabbit.

I do not move right away.

I let the silence settle over me, let the implication what I have done sink deep into my marrow.

And then, I rise.

I smooth down my dress.

I wipe the remnants of bile from my lips.

And I stare at my own reflection in the polished silver mirror across the room.

A girl looks back at me.

She does not look weak.

She does not look afraid.

She does not look like someone who has just tortured someone to save herself.

She looks like someone else entirely.

And I do not know which version of me is real anymore.