Page 6 of Crowned In Venom

6

VARKOS

I have had countless women brought to my bed. None have intrigued me like this one.

Anya is different.

She should not be.

She should be just another human girl with soft skin and sharp edges that crumble under pressure. Another plaything meant to entertain, to serve, to be discarded when I grow bored.

But I am not bored.

And I should be.

I stand at the edge of the bed, watching her.

She sleeps on her side, facing the balcony, the moonlight spilling through the iron-barred doors, painting silvered lines across her bare shoulders. The silk sheets barely cover her, tangled around her hips, as if even in sleep, she resists being caged.

I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair.

Why does she unsettle me?

It is not just her defiance. I have broken defiant women before, turned their fire into ashes between my hands.

It is not just her beauty. I have had women more beautiful than her—and none of them have made my blood hum the way she does.

No, it is something else.

Something I cannot name.

And I hate that.

I replay the night’s events in my head.

The way she stepped forward when I expected her to retreat.

The way she let her dress slip to the floor, but never let go of her power.

The way she looked at me—not with submission, but with calculation.

She thinks she is playing me.

She thinks I do not see the game she is weaving, the intricate dance between power and control, between yielding and resisting.

I let her think she is winning.

Because that is how I will take her apart.

She has not realized yet that there is no winning against me.

The fire burns low in the hearth, filling the room with the lingering scent of embers and something faintly sweet— the lingering fragrance of her skin against the silk sheets.

It is maddening.

I should walk away.

Should leave her in this bed, should pretend I do not care whether she sleeps soundly or is haunted by her dreams.

But I do not move.

I watch.

I study.

Her breathing is even, steady. Too steady.

A woman who has been enslaved for years does not sleep like this.

Not unless she has trained herself to.

Not unless she is pretending.

The thought makes my lips curve.

Clever thing.

I lean down, bracing my hand against the mattress, bringing my face close to hers.

Close enough that I can feel the warmth of her breath against my cheek.

Close enough that if she is awake, if she is only pretending, she will betray herself.

Nothing.

She does not stir.

Does not flinch.

If she is pretending, she is very, very good at it.

I let my fingers drift down, just barely grazing the curve of her exposed shoulder. A test.

She does not react.

But I do.

The briefest brush of my skin against hers is like a whisper of fire beneath my fingertips.

What is this?

I pull back, exhaling through my nose.

This is nothing.

It is only the allure of something forbidden. A game of power I am used to playing.

I turn away, stepping back from the bed.

I will sleep in the chair across the room tonight.

Because I do not trust her.

And because—gods help me—I do not trust myself.

Just as I settle into the chair, there is a shift in the air.

Subtle.

A flicker of tension that sends the smallest ripple down my spine.

My fingers tighten against the armrest.

Something is wrong.

Then—a sound.

Faint. A whisper of movement from outside the chamber doors.

I am on my feet in an instant, blade in hand before I even realize I have drawn it.

The noise is slight, barely audible against the crackling of the fire.

But it is there.

Someone is outside.

Listening. Watching.

I move silently, crossing the chamber, pressing my back to the cool stone wall beside the door. I listen.

Nothing.

But I know what I heard.

My grip tightens on the hilt of my dagger.

If someone thinks they can sneak into my chambers without my knowing, they are about to learn their last lesson.

I wait.

A breath.

Two.

Then, I throw the door open?—

And the hall beyond is empty.

Or so it seems.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise.

I am being watched.

I step into the corridor, my footsteps silent against the stone. The torches flicker along the walls, casting restless shadows.

Too quiet.

Then—

A whisper of movement.

Down the hall.

I do not hesitate.

I move fast, soundless, a predator hunting something that does not yet realize it is prey.

The hall twists, leading toward one of the servant’s passages—the one she noticed earlier.

And then, I see it.

A figure.

Draped in dark robes, hooded, faceless in the dim light.

Watching me.

Waiting.

Not a servant.

Not a guard.

Something else.

Something that should not be here.

I take a step forward, my blade gleaming in the firelight. “If you run, I will make it worse for you.”

The figure does not run.

Instead, they smile.

A slow, knowing thing.

And then—they vanish.

One blink, and they are gone.

Not possible.

I surge forward, but when I reach the space where they stood, there is nothing.

No sound.

No scent.

Only the faintest trace of something metallic in the air.

Magic.

A chill spreads through my chest, cold and slow, sinking into my bones.

Someone has entered my domain.

Someone is watching.

And if they are watching me?—

They are watching her.

I turn back toward my chamber, my heartbeat steady but too slow, too heavy.

I step inside.

The fire still burns low.

She is still asleep—or pretending to be.

I close the door behind me, locking it.

Whatever this is—whoever this is— they will not take me by surprise again.

And they will not take her.

Not before I find out what lies beneath her surface.