Page 23 of Crowned In Venom

23

VARKOS

I bring her to the auction to sell her.

At least, that is what the Matriarch must believe.

If I keep her too long, she will die.

Not by my hand, but by hers.

This is the only way.

A public display, a spectacle—to make it seem as though I have tired of her, as though she is merely another piece of flesh in my collection.

I have no doubt she knows what this means.

And yet, she walks beside me, silent, unreadable.

There is no fear in her steps.

Only calculation.

I should not admire that.

But I do.

The air is thick with heat, perfume, and desperation.

The auction house is vast, its stone walls carved with depictions of conquest—dark elves standing victorious over kneeling human figures. A history written in chains.

Men and women line the stage, shackled, displayed like exotic wares. Some are docile, beaten into submission. Others—newly caught—still have the fire of defiance burning in their eyes.

It will not last.

I step onto the main floor, leading Anya into the den of wolves.

Eyes flick toward us.

Nobles. Traders. Wealthy lords looking for new pets to break.

I do not have to announce myself.

They already know who I am.

The auctioneer, a gaunt elf with gold-threaded robes and too many rings on his fingers, inclines his head when he sees me.

"Lord Varkos."

I give a slight nod.

His gaze flicks to Anya.

"Are you here to buy, my lord?" he asks smoothly.

The room hushes slightly.

They are listening.

Waiting.

I need them to believe this.

I let my lips curl, lazy and bored.

"No," I murmur. "I am here to sell."

A flicker of interest.

The auctioneer’s brows lift slightly.

"This one?" He gestures toward Anya with an almost disbelieving smirk. "I had heard she was… favored."

I chuckle, dark and indifferent.

"She has grown tiresome."

I feel the way Anya stiffens beside me, so slight most would not notice.

But I do.

The auctioneer studies her for a moment before stepping forward.

"Then let us see what she is worth," he says, reaching for her.

And she moves.

Not away.

But toward him.

Her hand catches his wrist before he can touch her.

A sharp gasp ripples through the crowd.

The auctioneer jerks back, startled—offended, furious.

I say nothing.

I watch.

Anya tilts her head, emerald eyes gleaming with something too dangerous to name.

"I do not belong in a place like this," she says, her voice soft, edged in steel.

Murmurs spread.

Intrigue.

Amusement.

The auctioneer narrows his eyes. "You misunderstand your place, human."

She smiles.

A slow, dangerous thing.

"Do I?"

The auctioneer’s lips curl in distaste.

He looks at me, waiting for my command.

Waiting for me to strike her down for the audacity of speaking.

I do not.

I lift a hand, gesturing for him to continue.

"Go on," I murmur. "Let us see if she is worth anything."

The auctioneer straightens, composing himself.

"Very well."

He gestures to the room, his voice carrying.

"She is a rare thing," he announces. "A trained pleasure slave. Well-kept, untouched, and once favored by Lord Varkos himself."

A ripple of interest moves through the gathered crowd.

They are watching her closely now.

But Anya does not shrink.

She steps forward instead.

"Do you know why he kept me?" she asks, her voice like honey over glass.

The audience stills.

Anya smiles.

"He does not waste time on things without value."

Silence.

Then, the first offer comes.

"A hundred gold pieces."

Low. Testing.

Another voice.

"Two hundred."

The auctioneer straightens, his confidence returning.

But Anya does not wait for him to take control.

She turns to the crowd herself.

"And yet," she muses, "what use is gold, when it is influence you crave?"

Another murmur.

Her head tilts, her voice lowering just slightly, as if sharing a secret.

"Do you know what it is like to sit beside the Dark elf of the Underworld?" she asks.

My breath stills.

She does not look at me.

She does not have to.

She continues, stepping down from the stage, weaving through the men who moments ago would have thought her nothing.

"I have heard your names," she says softly.

I see the way some of them stiffen.

They do not like being recognized by a human.

But they do not correct her.

Because she is right.

She knows them.

And that makes them uneasy.

Anya smiles, her gaze flicking toward a noble whose estate is failing.

"Lord Ferros, did you not just lose five ships to demons?"

He stiffens.

Her eyes shift to another—a younger noble, more desperate.

"And Lord Veyrin, your father’s debt weighs heavily on your shoulders, does it not?"

Veyrin’s mouth tightens.

A quiet chuckle ripples through the crowd.

Because now, she has them.

I knew she was dangerous.

I did not know she was this dangerous.

She is not just surviving.

She is thriving.

The auctioneer, now thoroughly flustered, clears his throat.

"Three hundred gold pieces," someone calls.

"Four hundred!"

The bids rise sharply.

Because now, she is not just a slave.

She is an asset.

A woman who has been beside me—who has learned me.

They think they can use her.

That she will spill my secrets, whisper names in the dark.

They are wrong.

But I let them believe it.

Let them see her value.

The bidding rises.

And then, at the height of it?—

I lift a hand.

The room stills.

The auctioneer hesitates.

"My lord?"

A slow smile spreads across my lips.

"I have changed my mind," I murmur.

Silence.

The auctioneer’s brows furrow. "But?—"

I step forward, curling a finger beneath Anya’s chin, tilting her face up to mine.

"Perhaps," I say, my voice just loud enough to carry, "she is worth more than I thought."

Anya meets my gaze.

And in that moment, I know.

She sees the game I have played.

And more importantly—she has just won it.