Page 4 of Crowned In Venom

4

VARKOS

O bedience is a fragile thing. It can be forced, crushed into submission with the right amount of pressure. But true obedience—the kind that lasts—is something else entirely.

And Anya does not break.

She bends, just enough to give the illusion of compliance, but I see what she does not want me to see—the glint in her eyes, the way she watches me when she thinks I am not watching her.

She is playing a role, carefully constructed and dangerously convincing.

And I?

I am going to tear it apart.

I summon her just before midnight.

The palace is quiet at this hour, the halls empty save for the occasional patrol of my guards. The fire in my chambers burns low, casting flickering shadows over the dark stone walls. A place of secrets. A place of temptation.

She enters without hesitation.

A human girl wrapped in silk, delicate and sharp all at once.

The deep red fabric they dressed her in clings to her body, the neckline dipping just enough to be intentional. A weapon disguised as an offering.

I lean back in my chair, watching her as if she is already kneeling.

She does not kneel.

Of course she doesn’t.

I smirk. “Come closer.”

She obeys, stepping forward with that same quiet grace. The firelight plays against her skin, turning her into something almost otherworldly, a ghost of a girl who should not exist in my world yet refuses to disappear.

I let the silence stretch, watching her. Waiting.

She does not shift under my gaze.

A lesser slave would fidget, cast their eyes downward, try to make themselves smaller.

Anya?

She holds herself still, poised, controlled.

This is a dance. And she knows the steps well.

Finally, I rise from my chair and cross the space between us.

Slowly. Deliberately.

She does not step back.

Good.

I reach out, brushing the back of my fingers along her jaw. A test. The first press against the edges of her defiance.

She does not recoil. But she does not lean in, either.

Instead, she tilts her head ever so slightly, allowing my touch but offering nothing in return.

Clever girl.

“You are obedient,” I murmur, dragging my knuckles down the length of her throat. Feeling the pulse there. Steady. Unafraid.

“I try to be,” she answers softly.

I chuckle. “Do you?”

She meets my gaze, her emerald eyes dark in the firelight. “Would you prefer me to say otherwise, my lord?”

She tests me, too.

Playing the part, but pushing, always pushing.

I move behind her, circling her like a wolf deciding where to bite. Her breath is slow, measured. Waiting. Calculating.

I trail a hand along her bare shoulder, my fingers brushing the delicate strap of her gown.

She still does not move.

“You do not flinch,” I murmur.

“Should I?”

Ah.

There it is.

The knife hidden beneath the silk.

I reach around her, my hand coming to rest lightly on her hip. Not forceful. Not yet.

Her breath hitches, just a fraction, but she does not pull away.

I lean in, my lips near her ear. “Every woman before you has flinched.”

Anya’s voice is barely above a whisper. “I am not like the women before me.”

No. She isn’t.

And that is why she is dangerous.

I pull back, letting her go.

She turns to face me, her expression carefully neutral. A mask, just as intricate as my own.

“You are clever in your submission,” I say, moving toward the table where a decanter of wine waits. I pour a glass, swirling the deep red liquid before taking a sip. “But cleverness can be a dangerous thing.”

She watches me but does not respond.

I gesture toward the goblet. “Drink.”

She does not hesitate, stepping forward and accepting the glass from my hand. Her fingers brush mine, just barely, but I feel it.

She lifts the goblet to her lips, tilting her head back slightly as she drinks. Her throat moves, exposed for just a moment.

Vulnerable.

But not powerless.

She swallows, then lowers the cup. “Is this another test?”

I smirk. “What do you think?”

She sets the goblet down on the table with deliberate care. “I think you enjoy playing games.”

“And you don’t?”

A pause. A flicker of something in her expression.

Then, a slow smile.

Oh, she is exquisite.

But games are meant to be won.

And I have never lost.

I walk toward her again, slower this time. Watching her every breath, every flicker of reaction.

I press my advantage.

Lifting my hand, I trail a single finger along the hollow of her throat. Tracing the path the wine took only moments ago.

She stills beneath my touch.

Not because she is afraid.

But because she is deciding how to respond.

I lean in, my lips ghosting just above her skin. “Do you think I would hurt you, little fox?”

A heartbeat of silence.

Then—

“I think you could.”

Not an answer. A challenge.

I exhale, my breath warm against her neck. “And yet, you do not pull away.”

“I do not need to.”

Bold. Reckless. Perfect.

I drag my fingers down the line of her spine, watching the way her body betrays her—just slightly, just enough.

“You are playing a dangerous game, Anya.”

Her breath is soft, a whisper between us.

“So are you, my lord.”

I laugh, low and quiet.

Oh, I could devour her.

I could crush her beneath my hands, unravel her carefully built walls, turn her sharp tongue into something breathless and desperate.

But not yet.

No, not yet.

I step back, giving her space. A reminder that I am the one who chooses when the game ends.

She lifts her chin, her expression unreadable.

But her eyes?—

Her eyes tell me everything.

This is far from over.