Page 8 of Crowned In Venom

8

VARKOS

I shouldn’t want her.

Yet here I am, watching her through the flickering candlelight, studying every breath, every slight shift of her body as if she is a cipher I am desperate to crack.

She is a prisoner, a pawn, a means to an end.

And yet, the moment she entered my world, something shifted.

Something I do not trust.

Something I need to control.

She sits across from me, her posture relaxed but not careless. She has mastered the art of appearing unguarded while giving nothing away.

I pour myself a drink, watching her over the rim of my goblet. The wine is dark, thick, the taste sharp on my tongue. She watches me back, unblinking, unafraid.

She should fear me.

She does not.

"Tell me, Anya," I murmur, swirling the wine lazily. "Are you always this composed, or have you simply learned to pretend?"

Her lips curve into something not quite a smile, not quite a smirk.

"My lord," she says softly, "if I were pretending, wouldn’t I at least try to tremble?"

I chuckle, a low sound. "That depends. Some find fear enticing. A woman who shakes and whimpers makes for easy sport."

"And yet you do not like easy sport," she counters, tilting her head. "You enjoy the challenge."

My amusement does not fade. If anything, it deepens.

She is perceptive. Too perceptive.

I set my goblet down with a soft clink and lean forward. The firelight catches in my silver rings, glinting against the sharp edges of my knuckles.

"You play a dangerous game, little fox."

Her emerald eyes flicker, a quick assessment, not hesitation.

"Am I playing?" she asks, voice smooth as silk.

I exhale, dragging my fingers along the rim of my goblet. "Every word from your mouth is measured. Every move is a step in some invisible dance. But I am not blind to it."

"And yet, you enjoy watching," she says.

I still.

Not a flinch. Not a sharp inhale. But something in me tightens, sharpens.

She sees too much.

Too calm. Too confident.

I lean forward, slow and deliberate, until the space between us is razor-thin, a thread of tension stretched too tight.

"Are you testing me?" I murmur.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move away. Instead, she tilts her chin up, just slightly—an offering or a provocation.

"Are you testing me?" she echoes.

A slow, wicked grin curves my lips.

Oh, I could ruin her.

I could press against her mask until it cracks, unravel her careful control until she trembles, make her beg for mercy that I would never give.

But I do not.

Not yet.

Instead, I lift a single finger and trail it along her jaw, the touch featherlight.

A test.

A threat.

A promise.

She does not move away.

But she does not lean into it, either.

She bends—never breaks.

"Who are you, truly?" I murmur.

She exhales softly, her breath warm against my skin. "Would you like the lie or the truth?"

I chuckle, low and dark. "I will take whichever one is more interesting."

She lifts a delicate brow. "Then you want the lie."

Clever.

Too clever.

I pull back, watching her as I take another sip of my wine. "Your deception is impressive, little fox. But you forget one thing."

She tilts her head. "And what is that?"

I set the goblet down and lean closer, my voice a whisper against her skin.

"Every liar eventually slips."

Her breath hitches.

Barely.

But I feel it.

I let the silence stretch between us, heavy with something neither of us name.

Then, she does something I do not expect.

She leans in, just slightly, her lips a breath from my jaw.

"Then I suppose," she whispers, "you will just have to keep watching me, my lord."

And gods help me—I will.

When she leaves, I remain sitting, fingers curled around the stem of my goblet, still tasting the ghost of her breath on my skin.

I should not be drawn to her.

She is playing a game, weaving a trap with silk and soft words, with glances that linger just long enough to feel like an invitation.

And I am walking toward it. Willingly.

I exhale sharply, rolling my shoulders, forcing my body to release the tension coiling in my spine.

It is nothing.

A moment of interest, nothing more.

I have seen beautiful women before. I have owned them, ruined them, discarded them when their beauty lost its shine.

She is no different.

And yet—I know that is a lie.

I do not return to my bed.

Instead, I move to the balcony, letting the cold night air chase the last remnants of her scent from my mind.

Below, the city sprawls, a twisting labyrinth of pleasure and violence, of power and ruin.

My empire.

And yet, for the first time in years, I feel the presence of something I do not control.

Not her.

Something else.

Something that does not belong in my halls.

A shift in the air. A whisper of movement where there should be silence.

The same thing I sensed the night before.

I grip the railing, my knuckles whitening, my pulse slow and steady.

I know who sent them.

The Matriarch.

A spy, a shadow, something birthed from her endless paranoia.

She has been watching me my whole life. Testing me. Measuring me. Poisoning me with her presence.

And yet, I still do not know the extent of what she is capable of.

I have heard rumors, whispered horrors about her experiments, the way she molds flesh and mind alike.

But rumors are not truth.

And if she has sent one of her creatures into my home, then she is not just watching.

She is waiting.

For me to fail.

For me to become hers.

I exhale slowly, my rage kept on a tight leash.

She will not have that satisfaction.

She will not have Anya.

I turn back toward my chamber, locking the door behind me.

If the Matriarch wants to play games, she has chosen the wrong opponent.