Page 28 of Crowned In Venom

28

ANYA

I scrub my hands raw.

The water in the basin is already stained pink, swirls of red spiraling against the porcelain like ghosts refusing to leave.

Mira’s blood.

I tell myself it will wash away. That it is only skin, only flesh, only remnants of someone I could not save.

But it will not leave me.

I feel it under my nails, soaked into my palms, threading through every breath I take.

Another life. Gone because of me.

I grip the edges of the basin, my breath sharp. The room tilts, swaying under the weight of everything I have been ignoring—the hunger for vengeance, the shame of my own weakness, the kiss that still lingers on my lips.

I should have known better.

I do know better.

But I still let myself fall into him.

I let him touch me.

I let myself want him.

And now Mira is dead.

Coincidence?

No.

No, I don’t believe in coincidences.

I swallow hard and straighten, meeting my own gaze in the mirror.

I look the same.

But I am not.

Something inside me has cracked.

Something old and ugly and waiting.

It wants.

Not just revenge.

Destruction.

And I know now, without a doubt—Varkos’s mother ordered Mira’s death.

The Matriarch is watching.

She is testing me.

She wants to see what I will do.

If I will break.

If I will run.

But she underestimates me.

I do not break.

I sharpen.

And if she is watching, then I will give her a show.

I leave my chambers, my steps controlled, measured.

The halls of the palace seem darker tonight, heavier.

Guards nod as I pass, their gazes lingering in a way that was not there before. They are paying attention now. They have been told to.

And I know why.

I am marked.

Not as property.

Not as a pet.

But as a threat.

I reach the entrance to the lower halls, where Varkos’s quarters lie. Two guards stand in front of the doors, their expressions blank but their presence clear.

They do not want me here.

I let my lips curl into something soft, something deceptive. “Move.”

One guard hesitates. “Lord Varkos is not to be disturbed?—”

“I don’t care.”

The other guard tenses. “We have orders.”

I tilt my head. “From whom?”

A flicker of something—hesitation.

The Matriarch.

Not Varkos.

Interesting.

I exhale slowly, then step closer, lowering my voice to something silkier.

“Then let him decide if he wants me gone.”

They hesitate, but then one knocks sharply against the door.

Moments pass.

The heavy wood groans open, and I step inside.

The room is dimly lit, the smell of ink, steel, and something darker filling the air.

Varkos stands by the hearth, a goblet in his hand, his tunic loose, half-unfastened, as if he had been in the process of stripping for sleep.

But he is not relaxed.

He is watching me.

I can feel his gaze like an axe at my throat, assessing, calculating.

And beneath that—something else.

Something dangerous.

“Little fox,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “You should be asleep.”

My body betrays me.

A shiver runs down my spine—not from fear, but from the way his voice wraps around my throat like a silk noose.

I lift my chin. “So should you.”

He exhales a quiet laugh, stepping closer. “Bold tonight, aren’t we?”

I don’t smile.

I don’t play.

Not tonight.

“I found Mira.”

His expression does not change.

But something in the air shifts.

He takes another slow step, setting his goblet down on the table beside him.

“And?”

I search his face, looking for something—guilt, knowledge, regret.

But there is nothing.

His mask is flawless.

“Someone slit her throat.” My voice does not shake. “A warning.”

He hums, watching me. “A warning for whom?”

I don’t answer.

I don’t have to.

His gaze sharpens.

“Do you think I ordered it?” he asks.

I don’t know.

And that is the worst part.

I should know.

I should be certain.

But doubt creeps into my bones like ice.

I exhale, steadying myself.

“If you did,” I whisper, low, dangerous, “then you failed.”

His expression flickers—amusement, irritation.

He closes the space between us in two steps.

“Did I?”

I don’t move.

I don’t shrink.

I let him feel how close I am to breaking.

I let him feel the heat of my anger, the edge of my grief, the cold hunger for vengeance curdling in my insides.

Because he needs to see it.

He needs to understand.

His gaze drops to my lips—a mistake.

Because for a moment, just a breath—he lets me see what he is trying to resist.

He is not unaffected.

And that?

That is something I can use.

I reach up, my fingers ghosting along the line of his collar, tracing the fabric, testing him.

He stills.

I hear the sharp inhale, the tension in his muscles as I trail my touch lower, brushing against the bare skin beneath his tunic.

His pulse thrums beneath my fingertips.

I lift my gaze to his, letting him see the flicker of something dark in my eyes.

“I know your mother had her killed,” I murmur.

His jaw tightens.

A truth, then.

I press closer, my lips nearly brushing his ear.

“What will you do about it?”

His breath is ragged now.

I feel it.

The war inside him.

His mother. Me. The past.

I expect him to shove me away.

To deny it.

To play the game.

But instead, he does something far more dangerous.

He leans in.

His lips ghost over my jaw, not quite a kiss—a warning.

“You are playing with fire,” he whispers.

I exhale, my fingers tightening around the fabric of his tunic.

“So are you.”