Page 50 of Crowned In Venom

Anya lies beside me, half-covered in shadow, her auburn hair spilling over the silken sheets. The air between us is thick, weighted by everything that happened—and everything we refuse to name.

She should be sleeping.

Instead, she watches me.

I feel her gaze before I see it.

The way her eyes trace the sharp edges of my shoulders, the curve of my ribs, the scars etched into my skin like a history written in blood.

She has never asked about them.

And yet—tonight, she reaches.

Her fingers hover over a long, jagged mark across my torso, hesitating.

A test. A question she does not ask with words.

I should stop her.

I don’t.

Her touch is a whisper against my skin.

Light. Careful.

Too careful.

I let her explore, let her fingers trail over old wounds, as if she is trying to map the pieces of me I have long since forgotten how to feel.

"You don’t flinch," she murmurs.

"Pain is an old companion."

She tilts her head. "So is loneliness."

My jaw tightens.

She cuts too close.

I catch her wrist before she can go further, my grip firm, but not punishing. Not yet.

She does not pull away.

Does not look away.

That, more than anything, is what unsettles me.

"You are growing bold," I murmur, my thumb brushing over her pulse. Slow. Deliberate.

She exhales softly, but her heartbeat betrays her.

"Maybe I was always bold."

"Maybe." My grip tightens slightly. "Or maybe you are just learning that I will let you get away with it."

She smiles—a slow, knowing thing.

"And why is that, my lord?"

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