Page 25 of Crowned In Venom

25

VARKOS

I should not have brought her here.

Not after the auction.

Not after the way she looked at me when I told her I knew. I can’t even master the strength to lash at her.

I should have locked her in her chambers, let her suffocate in the weight of my knowledge. Let her wonder when I would strike.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I brought her with me.

Now we sit in the confines of my carriage, the city’s cobbled streets rumbling beneath the wheels, rain-soaked stone and spice-laden air curling into the space between us.

She is too close.

Or I am.

The glow of the lantern sways with the wind, its golden light catching on the fine strands of her hair. The flickering glow licks across her skin, gliding over the curve of her jaw, the line of her throat.

Her lips are still painted with the remnants of deception.

She has not yet explained herself.

I should demand it.

Instead, I want to ruin her.

The silence between us is sharp enough to bleed.

Anya sits across from me, composed but coiled.

She does not fidget.

She does not speak.

But she watches.

Like a creature in the dark, measuring the length of my patience.

I let her.

I let her sit in the unbearable quiet, let her feel my gaze, the heaviness in the air.

She thinks she can manipulate me.

That she can hold her secrets close to her chest, wrap them in soft words and honeyed lies.

But I have played this game longer.

I know how to bend a body without breaking it.

How to force someone to yield without ever laying a hand on them.

She exhales, slow, controlled.

"If you mean to kill me, you could have done it already."

I smirk, dragging a gloved finger along the carved wood of the seat beside me.

"Who says I won’t?"

Her emerald eyes flicker in the dim light. "Then why are we here?"

I should answer.

I should remind her that she is mine to do with as I please. That she does not get to ask questions.

But instead, I watch the way her breath catches when I lean forward.

The way her hands press into the seat beside her, as if bracing for something.

The way her throat moves when she swallows.

The way her lips part—just slightly.

And I know.

She is playing a role.

But so am I.

It is not supposed to happen.

Not like this.

Not at all.

But when I reach for her, it is not out of anger.

Not out of dominance.

It is out of need.

And when my mouth crashes against hers, she does not pull away.

She meets me.

Fierce. Unrelenting.

Her fingers twist into my robes, dragging me closer, and I let her. I let her press her body against mine, let her sigh into my mouth, let her ruin me.

It is not a kiss of war.

Not a battle for power.

It is fire. It is surrender.

It is the thing I swore I would never allow.

And I do not stop it.

I deepen the kiss, dragging her closer, my hand sliding into her hair, tangling at the base of her skull, tilting her head back.

A low sound escapes her throat, a breathless gasp—not fear. Not pain.

Something else.

Something worse.

She is not resisting.

She is taking.

And so am I.

Her body presses into mine, soft and unafraid, her heat sinking into my bones.

She tastes like spiced wine and the lie she always says.

I want to devour it from her tongue.

I press her against the seat, against me, against every instinct screaming at me to stop.

Her hands are in my hair now, fisting, pulling, dragging.

I should hate her.

I should tear her apart.

Instead, I groan against her lips, taking more, needing more, sinking into something I do not understand.

Her body molds against mine, dangerous and yielding, her breath hot as she whispers my name.

Not my lord.

Not Varkos.

Just a breathless exhale.

A ruin.

And I know if I do not stop now, I will not stop at all.

I tear myself away.

Not gracefully.

Not cleanly.

It is a violent separation.

A ragged inhale as I press a hand to my forehead, forcing myself back, forcing distance where there should never have been any.

I can still taste her on my tongue.

Anya stares at me, her lips swollen, her breath uneven, her eyes unreadable.

She does not look shaken.

She does not look afraid.

She looks like she won.

"You…" Her voice is hoarse. "You kissed me."

I close my eyes.

Mistake.

"We had sex before," she murmurs. "But this…"

She doesn’t finish the sentence.

She doesn’t have to.

I already know.

This was different.

This was worse.

"Forget it," I say, voice rough. Too rough.

She exhales a shaky breath.

"That wasn’t part of the game, was it?"

No.

No, it wasn’t.

And that is what terrifies me most.

I stare out the window, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

Anya shifts in her seat.

She touches her lips—just slightly.

As if testing if what happened was real.

I refuse to look at her.

Because if I do—I don’t know what I will do next.

Because she is under my skin now.

And I don’t like it.

“Leave,” I order. Her feet shuffles to the door, lingering for a moment but I refuse to look at her.

I can’t afford it.