Page 12 of Crowned In Venom

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.”

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