Page 35 of Crowned In Venom

35

VARKOS

T he silver knife gleams in my mother’s hand, reflecting the dim torchlight of the chamber. A beautiful weapon—delicate, intricate, deadly.

Just like her.

Just like this moment.

The suffocatng stench of blood is already in the air, thick and metallic, coiling around my ribs like a vice. The heavy iron chains rattle as Anya is forced to her knees, her wrists bound behind her back. She does not beg.

Of course, she doesn’t.

Even now, with her body bruised from the guards dragging her here, with the Matriarch standing over her like a god preparing to pass judgment, she refuses to bow.

And I do not know whether I want to break her myself or tear this entire room apart to save her.

"You’ve been a very foolish girl."

My mother’s voice is deceptively soft. Dangerous.

Anya does not respond.

A mistake.

The Matriarch lifts the knife.

I grip the armrest of my chair so tightly my knuckles crack.

"You will not speak?" my mother muses, tilting her head as she glides behind Anya. The blade traces the curve of Anya’s bare shoulder, a whisper of cold steel against warm skin.

Anya remains silent.

Defiant.

I see the way her jaw tightens, the way her muscles coil beneath the surface. Preparing.

But there is no preparing for my mother.

The first cut is slow.

Purposeful.

A shallow slice across Anya’s upper arm—not deep enough to be fatal, just enough to feel.

Enough to hurt.

Her breath catches.

She does not scream.

My hands twitch.

"You thought you could bring ruin to my house?" my mother whispers, her tone almost affectionate. She drags the blade lower, down Anya’s arm, letting blood bead and spill in slow, crimson lines.

"That you could turn my own son against me?"

The silver blade catches the torchlight, a glint of steel and cruelty in my mother’s hands. It is a beautiful thing, forged for precision, meant for hands that know exactly how to draw out pain.

And she does.

Anya is on her knees before her, bound, bleeding, but unbroken.

She should be afraid. Any sane person would be.

But she is not sane.

She glares up at my mother, green eyes burning like embers in the dim torchlight, her face tight with pain but filled with the kind of hatred that does not bend.

She is furious. Daring.

And I am coming undone.

"You’ve been a very foolish girl."

My mother’s voice is a lover’s whisper. Soft. Dangerous.

A chill slithers down my spine, coiling around my ribs like a vice.

I have seen her do this before. A hundred times. A thousand.

Her games are always the same.

Break them slowly.

Make them think they have a choice.

And then take everything.

"I should have expected this," she continues, her fingers tracing the line of the knife as if admiring a piece of art. "You humans always think you are clever. You are pests. Nothing more."

She moves closer, slow, unhurried.

I feel every step like a hammer inside my skull.

Anya spits blood onto the floor.

"Go to hell, you miserable hag."

The room shifts.

The guards tense.

A sharp, biting silence swallows the air.

Then—

My mother laughs.

Low and dark. Cold enough to turn the marrow in my bones to ice.

"Hag?" she murmurs, tilting her head. "Is that the best you can do, girl?"

Anya grits her teeth, her entire body trembling, but not from fear.

From rage.

"You're a parasite," she hisses. "Clutching at power that isn't yours. Taking and taking, leeching life out of the people beneath you because you know if you ever stood alone, you would be nothing."

My mother stills.

For the first time, a flicker of something dangerous passes over her face.

Anya sees it.

And she smiles.

A slow, bloody thing. Defiant.

"You're afraid of me, aren't you?" she whispers, voice hoarse from pain. "That’s why you’re doing this. Because you know I can take something from you."

A sharp crack echoes through the chamber.

Anya’s head snaps to the side.

The slap is brutal, enough to split her lip wider, enough to make her sway.

I grip the arms of my chair, forcing myself not to move.

Not to react.

Not to betray the storm ripping me apart from the inside.

But my mother is not finished.

She crouches before Anya, fingers gripping her chin, forcing her to look up.

"You will take nothing from me," she whispers. "You are already nothing."

Anya laughs.

It is soft, but real. The kind of laugh that is meant to cut.

"Tell yourself that if it helps you sleep at night, you withered old bitch."

A sharp intake of breath.

My mother’s fingers tighten visibly trembling.

And then?—

The knife plunges in.

A gasp escapes Anya’s lips.

The blade sinks deep between her ribs, slow, deliberate.

Not a clean wound.

A wound meant to be felt.

My vision narrows.

"You will die for this," my mother murmurs, twisting the knife.

Anya grits her teeth, choking on a breath.

My breath catches.

I am watching it happen.

Watching her die in front of me.

And I do nothing.

I force myself to stay still.

To remain the son she has trained me to be.

For my mission. I can wait out another ten years for the poison to take effect.

But my fingers twitch against the hilt of my blade.

Unfortunately, Not this. I can’t watch.

"You will not be remembered."

She twists the blade again.

Anya’s body jerks.

A sharp, shuddering breath escapes her lips.

Anya does not speak.

But she turns her head, ever so slightly, and meets my gaze.

My stomach turns.

Because I see it.

Not pleading.

Not begging.

She is searching.

For me.

A choice.

A warning.

And something inside me snaps.

I stand.

"Enough."

My voice cuts through the air, razor-sharp, unyielding.

The Matriarch stills.

Slowly, she turns.

Her silver eyes lock onto mine, gleaming with amusement.

She did not expect me to break.

She expected me to sit here and watch her bleed out.

She expected me to be hers.

But I have already chosen.

Not survival.

Not duty.

Not my mission.

Her.

I have already chosen Anya.

Even if it means my ruin.