Page 5 of Crowned In Venom

5

ANYA

T wo days after our last encounter, he calls me again.

I enter his chamber alone this time.

The heavy doors close behind me with a finality that presses against my ribs. There are no guards, no audience, no cold metal shackles to remind me of my place. But I know better than to mistake this for freedom.

This room is another kind of cage.

The fire in the hearth burns low, its embers casting shadows that flicker against the dark stone walls. The air is thick with something unspoken, something waiting.

And him.

Varkos.

He leans against the grand canopy bed, his posture deceptively relaxed, watching me as if he has already unraveled me. As if he already owns me.

I let him think so.

He has tested me, pushed against the edges of my defiance, waiting for me to break or kneel.

I have done neither.

So now, I do something far more dangerous.

I yield.

At least, I let him believe I do.

I take a slow step forward, my bare feet silent against the cool marble. My silk dress—deep red, the color of blood spilled beneath a hunter’s blade—clings to my body, the fabric whispering as I move.

His amethyst eyes follow me. Tracking. Waiting.

I tilt my head, allowing my hair to slip over my shoulder, the movement practiced and effortless. A touch of vulnerability that is not truly there.

“My lord,” I murmur.

His lips curve, slow and knowing. “You sound different tonight.”

I meet his gaze, steady, unreadable. “Should I not?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pushes off the bed, closing the space between us in measured, predatory strides.

I do not move away.

His fingers lift, grazing the edge of my jaw, the same way one tests the sharpness of a blade.

“You intrigue me, Anya.” His voice is velvet over steel, smooth but edged with something dangerous. “You pretend so well.”

I let my lashes lower, feigning submission, but my lips curve—just enough. “You think I pretend?”

He steps closer, the heat of him a breath from my skin. I can feel the tension coil between us, thick as a noose.

“I know you do,” he murmurs. “But the question is… why?”

I press my hands together at my waist, letting the silk slip against my fingers. Deliberate. Unrushed.

“Perhaps I wish to please my master,” I say, tilting my chin ever so slightly.

His smirk is dark amusement. A hunter humoring his prey.

“Is that what you call me?” His hand ghosts lower, tracing the line of my collarbone, his touch featherlight. A test.

I swallow, keeping my breath steady. Letting him believe he affects me.

His fingers trail down, just enough to skim the curve of my shoulder before he pulls back, studying my reaction.

There is no fear in me.

Only calculation.

I play a dangerous game tonight.

Because power is not always in resistance.

Sometimes, it is in the illusion of surrender.

He circles me, slow and deliberate, his presence a storm pressing against my skin.

“Take off your dress,” he says.

I hesitate—just a fraction of a second, just enough to make it seem real. Then, with careful grace, I reach for the delicate ties at my shoulders, loosening the fabric until it slides down my body, pooling at my feet in a whisper of silk against stone.

I hear his breath shift, a slow inhale.

I let the silence stretch, let the heat of his gaze settle over me. I do not cover myself. I do not cower.

I hold his stare.

He steps closer, his fingers grazing the side of my throat, tilting my chin up until I have no choice but to meet his eyes.

“Do you know what I could do to you?” he murmurs.

The words should be terrifying.

But they are an invitation.

I part my lips, just slightly. “Do you?”

Something flashes in his gaze—dark amusement, hunger, something sharper.

He grips my chin, not cruelly, but firmly. “You enjoy provoking me.”

I do not deny it.

I do not look away.

Varkos exhales, a quiet laugh beneath his breath. “Clever thing.”

His thumb drags along my lower lip, a ghost of a touch, a silent promise.

I let him believe I am yielding.

Because every touch, every whispered word is a move in my game.

He does not touch me the way I expect.

He steps back instead, watching me as if waiting for me to falter, to flinch.

I do neither.

Instead, I follow.

A shift of power. Subtle. Precise.

I step forward, closing the space he put between us. My fingers lift, grazing over the intricate silver embroidery on his robe, a whisper of touch.

I feel him tense beneath it.

Interesting.

“You command an entire clan, an empire of fighting clubs and pleasure dens,” I say softly, my fingers trailing along the fabric, not quite touching the warmth of his skin beneath. “Yet you hesitate.”

His hand catches my wrist. Not harsh. Not rough. But unyielding.

“Do not mistake patience for hesitation, little fox,” he murmurs, his voice dark silk against my skin.

I tilt my head, considering him. “And do not mistake defiance for foolishness.”

A beat of silence.

Then, he laughs.

Dark. Low. Sinful.

His fingers release my wrist, his touch dragging away like the edge of a blade pulling back before it cuts.

“Very well,” he murmurs. “We will play your game.”

He steps back, leaving me standing bare before him. Unclaimed. Untouched.

A different kind of power.

A different kind of control.

His amethyst eyes burn with something unspoken.

But he does not touch me again.

Not tonight.

Tonight, he lets me think I have won.

But we both know the truth.

This is only the beginning.