Page 49 of Crowned In Venom

A shiver runs through her, subtle but undeniable. I feel it, just as I feel the frantic beat of her heart, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. I feel everything.

“I don’t need to manipulate you,” she says, her voice a steady flame in the darkness. “You’re already unraveling.”

That’s it. I snap.

My mouth crashes down on hers, hard and punishing, a clash of teeth and tongues. It’s a war waged between lips and breath, a primal need for dominance and possession. But she doesn’t yield. She fights back with an equal ferocity, her hands tangling in my hair, her nails digging into my scalp, drawing blood. This isn’t surrender. This is a battle, a bloody, beautiful battle.

I tear my lips from hers, breathing hard, the taste of her blood a metallic tang on my tongue. “You want this?” I snarl, my voice raw.

Her answer isn’t in words. Her hands slide down my chest, her fingers tracing the scars that mark my skin, each touch a brand, a claim. Her eyes, dark and bottomless, lock on mine.

No fear. Only a ravenous hunger that mirrors my own. It’s too much.

I grab her wrists, pinning them above her head, my body pressing into hers, leaving no space, no air, nothing but the searing heat between us. She arches into me, her hips grinding against mine, and a low growl rumbles in my throat.

“You’re mine, slave” I growl, the words a guttural claim of ownership.

A breathless laugh escapes her lips, the sound a jolt of pure fire through my veins. “Prove it.”

I don't need to be told twice. I release her wrists, my hands sliding down her body, gripping her hips, lifting her off the ground. She wraps her legs around me, her heat searing through the fabric of my robes. I carry her to the table, scattering the maps and scrolls that litter its surface like fallen leaves.

She doesn’t protest. She doesn’t hesitate.

Her back hits the cold wood, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as I lean over her. My hands roam her body, tearing at the fabric that separates us. She’s too clothed, too covered. I need to feel her skin, bare and hot against mine. I rip the fabric, exposing the creamy swell of her breasts, the curve of her hip, the long line of her leg. My fingers trace the delicate curve of her collarbone, dip into the hollow of her throat, and then lower, trailing fire across the soft skin of her belly.

“Varkos,” she murmurs, her voice a mix of challenge and plea. A sound that both infuriates and excites me.

I silence her with another kiss, deeper this time, slower, a promise and a threat all at once. Her hands are everywhere, pulling at my robes, her touch igniting a fire that threatens to consume me whole. I shed my robes, impatient for the feel of her skin against mine.

I position myself between her thighs, the heat radiating from her core branding me. I look down at her, her eyes dark and dilated, her lips parted in anticipation. With one swift movement, I enter her, the slick heat of her engulfing me. A sharp cry escapes her lips, a mixture of pain and pleasure.

“Varkos…” she breathes, her fingers digging into my back.

I move within her, slow at first, savoring the feel of her tightening around me, then faster, harder, driven by the primal need that’s consuming me. Her hips buck beneath me, meeting my thrusts with an equal ferocity. I watch as her head throws back, her moans echoing in the dimly lit room, her body arching beneath me as wave after wave of pleasure washes over her.

The sight of her pleasure fuels my own, driving me to the edge. I grip her hips, pulling her harder against me, burying myself deeper within her. Her nails dig into my back, drawing blood, but I barely notice. All I can feel is the heat, the friction, the desperate rhythm of our bodies moving together.

“Anya,” I growl, my voice thick with desire. The sound of her name a prayer on my lips.

Her body tenses, her cries becoming sharper, more urgent. I feel her convulsing around me as she reaches her peak, her release a shockwave that ripples through me. I follow close behind, my own release a torrent of heat and raw, untamed need.

When it’s over, when we’re both spent and trembling, I collapse on top of her, my breath ragged against her ear. I don't let her go.

Not yet.

I own her. And I’ll burn the world to keep her by my side until I tire of her.

And throw her away myself.

17

VARKOS

The fire has burned down to embers, casting the room in low, flickering light.

She has not left.

And I have not told her to.

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