Page 21 of Crowned In Venom

21

VARKOS

T he summons comes at twilight.

Not an hour earlier. Not an hour later.

Precise. Calculated.

Like everything she does.

The message is delivered by a servant who does not look me in the eye. They never do.

"The Matriarch requests your presence, my lord."

A polite lie. She does not request.

She commands.

I do not make her wait.

I do not challenge her control.

I play the game.

To survive is to submit—just enough to make her believe I am still hers.

The halls leading to her chambers are colder than the rest of the palace.

The torches flicker lower here, their glow casting long, spindly shadows against the dark stone walls.

The guards stationed at the entrance do not speak. Their armor gleams in the candlelight, faceless and still.

They have seen what happens when one displeases her.

So have I.

I step through the towering doors, and the moment they shut behind me, the air changes.

Thickens.

The chamber is drenched in jasmine and candlelight, thick with the haze of burning incense.

She waits for me, sprawled on a chaise of black silk, her silver hair tumbling over one shoulder.

Her robes are loose, draping over her like spilled ink, the delicate folds whispering against her skin.

The scene is too intimate.

Too deliberate.

And the nausea coils in my gut like a slow, writhing thing.

"Varkos."

My name on her lips is a caress, a weapon, a leash.

I bow my head—just slightly. Not enough to be submissive.

"Matriarch."

Not mother.

Not tonight.

"You came quickly," she muses, tilting her goblet of wine, watching the crimson liquid swirl.

I do not rise to the bait.

"Why have you summoned me?"

She tsks softly, amused, indulgent.

"So impatient," she murmurs, taking a slow sip. "That is unlike you."

A test.

A trap.

I smile—just a little. Just enough to appease.

"Have I displeased you?"

A slow inhale.

Her eyes flick over me, searching, dissecting.

"Not yet."

She stands, the silk pooling at her feet, her steps unhurried, predatory.

Closing the space between us.

I do not move.

I do not flinch.

Because this is part of the game.

She touches my jaw, a light, gliding caress.

The same touch I have seen her use on men she intends to destroy.

But I am not them.

Her fingers trail down, lingering a breath too long.

And then, she whispers, "You are distracted."

A statement.

Not a question.

I keep my expression unreadable.

"Am I?"

She smiles, but it does not reach her eyes.

"You think I do not see it?"

She steps even closer, close enough that I can smell the jasmine on her skin, the wine on her breath.

"You bring the human girl to the dungeons," she murmurs. "Make her kneel beside you in the dark. Make her watch you spill blood."

She tilts her head. "Make her participate."

She watches me, violet eyes alight with something too sharp, too knowing.

"And yet," she breathes, "you still have not destroyed her."

I exhale softly.

Bored.

Dismissing.

"As a lesson," I say, "nothing more."

The words are smooth. Practiced.

They are a lie, and yet they are also a truth.

She studies me, lips parting slightly.

And then—she laughs.

Low. Indulgent. Mocking.

"You are so predictable," she muses. "Always testing, always measuring. You think you are so careful."

She steps behind me now, trailing just close enough that the fine hairs at my nape rise.

"But I wonder," she whispers, "do you remember the last one?"

I lift my goblet.

Take a slow sip.

Swallowing bile.

Swallowing rage.

Because of course I remember.

The woman who thought she could stand beside me.

The woman who was torn apart because of it.

The woman who screamed my name until she had no breath left.

"She was a fool," I say simply. "As all the others will be."

I let the words settle.

Let her think I have learned.

That I understand.

That Anya is no different.

Because if I let her believe that…

She will not kill her.

Not yet.

The Matriarch smiles.

Satisfied.

She lifts her goblet once more, taking a long, slow sip.

Then, without looking at me?—

"Enjoy her while you can."

A final warning.

A promise.

And I bow my head, murmuring soft, obedient words.

But inside—something seethes.

Something dark.

Something waiting.

Because I know.

I know that one day, the game we play will end.

And only one of us will still be standing.