Page 57 of Crowned In Venom

Anya walks beside me, silent, but her shoulders are tense.

She knows where I am taking her.

And she does not ask why.

Because she already knows.

This is a lesson.

A warning.

A reminder of what I am.

And what she will become if she is not careful.

The dungeon is silent when we enter.

The prisoner kneels in the center of the room, arms shackled above his head, his body a canvas of blood and bruises.

A single candle flickers from the far table, illuminating the tools laid out in precise, surgical order.

Blades. Whips. Hooks.

There is no need for extravagance.

Pain is the only language that matters here.

And tonight, Anya will speak it.

She stops at the threshold, just for a second.

It is a small hesitation—barely there.

But I see it.

I feel it.

I turn to her, stepping close, letting the weight of the space settle around us.

"You fed me the information," I murmur. "Now, you prove it."

She lifts her chin. "I told you what I know."

"That is not enough."

I reach past her, fingers trailing the length of the table, selecting a coiled leather whip.

Simple. Elegant. Cruel.

I press it into her palm.

Her fingers remain still.

Cold. Unmoving.

"Use it," I command.

A beat of silence.

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