Page 59 of Crowned In Venom

So I press my fingers against the nape of her neck, just barely—a phantom touch.

A promise.

"If you stop, it will be you."

Her breath catches.

And then—the whip sings again.

Another strike.

Then another.

A slow, brutal rhythm.

Each crack of leather against flesh is a note in a song she does not want to play.

And yet, she plays it.

She learns the melody.

When she stops, her chest is rising and falling too quickly.

Her pulse thrums at the base of her throat, wild, unrestrained.

The whip is still coiled in her hand.

Blood beads along the prisoner’s back, a jagged red map of pain.

And yet—I am only looking at her.

Her fingers tremble.

Not from weakness.

From something else.

Something she does not want to name.

I take the whip from her, trailing my fingers over her wrist as I do.

She shivers, but not from the cold.

I smile.

"You hesitate," I murmur.

She does not answer.

"Good." I drag the coil of leather along my palm. "Hesitation is worse than fear."

She exhales slowly, trying to steady herself.

I do not let her.

"You have learned something tonight, little fox."

She finally meets my gaze.

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