Page 38 of Crowned In Venom

38

VARKOS

D arkness.

It coils around me, thick and endless, swallowing everything.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t move.

My limbs are heavy, dragging me down, deeper and deeper into the abyss.

I try to fight it—I always fight—but the more I struggle, the more the weight pulls at me, like unseen hands grasping my wrists, my ankles, wrapping around my throat.

I am sinking.

I am drowning.

And for the first time in my life, I feel helpless.

The shadows press closer, suffocating, their whispers curling against my ears, a chorus of voices I do not recognize.

"You were never meant to be free."

"You are hers."

"You will always be hers."

"No escape, no escape, no escape?—"

I snarl, thrashing.

"No!"

But there is no sound. No light.

Only the blackness, pulling me under.

Until—

A hand grabs mine.

Small. Warm.

Real.

The darkness shudders.

I look up.

And she is there.

Anya.

Her emerald eyes gleam in the void, her lips curling into the smallest, softest smile.

"Varkos," she whispers, pulling me toward her.

Her fingers tighten around mine, firm, unwavering, dragging me up, up, up?—

Out of the abyss.

And then?—

I wake.

Pain explodes behind my eyes.

A sharp inhale, my lungs burning, my body stiff and aching.

I try to move—and something wrenches me back.

Cold iron bites into my wrists.

Chains.

I am chained to my own bed.

The scent of blood lingers in the air, mixed with something bitter—tonics. Herbs. Magic.

I blink hard, my vision spinning.

The golden glow of lanterns flicker, casting long shadows against the walls of my chamber.

I try again, yanking against the chains.

They don’t budge.

Rage coils hot in my veins.

I snarl, pulling harder, my muscles burning, my body weak from the poison, from the wounds, from?—

I fall.

The chains drags me off the bed, and I collapse onto the cold marble floor.

Pain explodes through my ribs, but I barely feel it.

I crawl, dragging myself forward, yanking at the bindings, my breath ragged.

"Damn it!"

I need to get up.

I need to?—

"Anya."

The name rips from my throat, hoarse and raw.

"Where is she?"

Silence.

A slow, measured footstep echoes through the room.

And then?—

A soft, familiar sigh.

"Oh, my son."

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I freeze.

She is here.

I do not need to look. I feel her presence before I see her.

The Matriarch.

She moves toward me, her silk robes whispering against the stone floor, her dark hands gleaming in the dim light.

"Look at you."

She crouches, reaching for my face, her nails grazing my cheek.

I flinch.

But she catches my jaw, forcing me to meet her gaze.

"So much like him," she whispers, almost reverent. "Your father."

I go rigid.

Not this.

Not again.

Her silver eyes gleam with something sick, something twisted.

"Do you know what he looked like when he was in love?"

I stiffen.

She tilts her head, a cruel smile curling her lips.

"Like this."

Her fingers trail along my face.

"Desperate."

"Foolish."

"Blind."

My stomach turns.

"You talk about him," I grind out, my voice like gravel. "But the more you speak?—"

I pause.

A horrible thought slams into my mind.

I swallow hard.

No.

No, it can't be.

But—

Her expression shifts.

Something wild flickers in her eyes.

Then, she laughs.

A sound that is not right.

"Ah," she breathes, voice dripping with amusement. "You're beginning to understand, aren't you?"

My heart pounds against my ribs.

"He didn't love you," I whisper.

Her laughter stops.

A cold, heavy silence settles between us.

And then?—

She slaps me.

Hard.

My head snaps to the side, pain blooming across my face.

But it is nothing compared to the horrible, sinking revelation curling in my gut.

"You were never his," I breathe.

"Were you?"

The Matriarch stares at me.

And for the first time in my life, I see it.

A crack.

A sliver of something unhinged, desperate.

And then, just as quickly, she smooths it away.

She exhales, composing herself, brushing her fingers over the place where she struck me, as if it had been nothing.

"I will forgive this, my son."

Her tone is sweet.

"I will forgive all of it."

Her fingers drift lower, brushing over the chains that bind me.

"Because I am generous."

A slow, mocking smile.

"Because I love you."

I grit my teeth, rage boiling beneath my skin.

"Go to hell."

She chuckles.

"I am offering you everything."

Her voice turns silk-soft, like poison wrapped in honey.

"My empire."

"My clan."

"My power."

"The world, Varkos."

She leans in, her lips grazing my ear.

"All you have to do?—"*

A pause. A heartbeat.

"—is kill her."

My blood turns ice-cold.

The room spins.

"What?"

She pulls back, her silver eyes bright.

"It is simple, darling."

"Anya is the sickness."

"Remove her, and everything will be yours."

She tilts her head, studying me.

"Or," she continues, voice softening, "I will leave you here."

"A shell."

"A corpse of your old self."

"Locked away, forgotten, while I unmake her myself."

She steps back, spreading her arms.

"Choose."

I stare at her.

My breath comes too fast, too shallow.

I feel the chains, holding onto me, locking me down like a ton of bricks.

My choice chokes me, strangling every part of me.

Anya or the empire. The clan. The power.

Everything I worked hard for.

Her death or my ruin.

I have seconds.

And I do not know if I will survive my own decision.