Page 64 of Crowned In Venom

Like everything she does.

The message is delivered by a servant who does not look me in the eye. They never do.

"The Matriarch requests your presence, my lord."

A polite lie. She does not request.

She commands.

I do not make her wait.

I do not challenge her control.

I play the game.

To survive is to submit—just enough to make her believe I am still hers.

The halls leading to her chambers are colder than the rest of the palace.

The torches flicker lower here, their glow casting long, spindly shadows against the dark stone walls.

The guards stationed at the entrance do not speak. Their armor gleams in the candlelight, faceless and still.

They have seen what happens when one displeases her.

So have I.

I step through the towering doors, and the moment they shut behind me, the air changes.

Thickens.

The chamber is drenched in jasmine and candlelight, thick with the haze of burning incense.

She waits for me, sprawled on a chaise of black silk, her silver hair tumbling over one shoulder.

Her robes are loose, draping over her like spilled ink, the delicate folds whispering against her skin.

The scene is too intimate.

Too deliberate.

And the nausea coils in my gut like a slow, writhing thing.

"Varkos."

My name on her lips is a caress, a weapon, a leash.

I bow my head—just slightly. Not enough to be submissive.

"Matriarch."

Not mother.

Not tonight.

"You came quickly," she muses, tilting her goblet of wine, watching the crimson liquid swirl.

I do not rise to the bait.

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