Page 3 of Crowned In Venom

I turn to the guards still waiting in the chamber. “Leave,” I order, my voice a blade of command. They bow and scatter, their armor clanking against the marble floors as they file out.

I take my time following.

I am in no hurry.

She should be the one to sweat, to wonder what awaits her in my chambers.

She should fear me.

And yet, something tells me she does not.

___

The halls of House Vortalis are imposing, cold—sharp angles of black marble and silver veins that seem to pulse with an eerie glow. Magic lingers in the walls, old and restless. Much like my mother’s reach.

A reminder.

I must be careful with this one.

When I enter my chambers, she is waiting.

She stands by the fire, its glow licking over the delicate curves of her body, illuminating the defiant set of her shoulders. The servants have done as I ordered—her chains have been removed, and she has been given finer clothes, silk the color of deep garnet, the fabric pooling at her feet, draped just enough to suggest vulnerability without giving it freely.

She looks like a queen trapped in the wrong kingdom.

She does not turn when I approach.

I let the silence stretch, savoring it, letting it coil around us like a noose.

Finally, I break it.

“You are quiet.” My voice is soft, deliberate. A knife’s edge gliding over bare skin.

She turns, slowly, gracefully—like a woman who has already weighed every outcome of this conversation.

“Should I fill the silence, my lord?” she asks, voice smooth as honey, yet there is venom buried beneath the sweetness.

I study her. She is baiting me.

I smile. “You seem to enjoy talking. I thought I would allow you the chance to prove how well your tongue can serve me.”

Her emerald eyes darken—not with fear, but with something sharper, something that presses against the line of danger without stepping over it.

“I have served many masters,” she says. “Each one thought they were the first to test me.”

She is not afraid to challenge me.

Interesting.

I step closer, closing the space between us, inhaling the faintest hint of her scent—not perfume, nothing artificial. Just her. Something wild beneath the polished exterior.

“Then tell me,” I murmur, my hand lifting, trailing along the soft line of her jaw, “how many of them lived to regret it?”

She does not flinch.

Does not blink.

Only tilts her head slightly, exposing the column of her throat—an offering or a dare.

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