Page 14 of Craving Their Venom
I turn and leave as silently as I came.
The next evening, I summon her.
She enters my main chamber, her eyes wary, her posture defensive. She wears another of the simple silk tunics, this one the color of a pale dawn sky. It makes her look ethereal, breakable.
“You wished to see me?” she asks, her voice quiet but steady.
“The court whispers, Amara,” I say, not bothering with pleasantries. I remain seated in my high-backed chair, forcing her to stand before me like a petitioner. “They see you as my weakness. A lever they can use to pry me from my path. This cannot be.”
“I have done nothing,” she says, a flicker of defiance in her eyes.
“You have done everything,” I counter, rising to my feet. I stalk toward her, enjoying the way she flinches but holds her ground. “You exist. That is your crime.” I stop before her, close enough to see the silver dust still clinging to her lashes. “The court must understand your place. And so must you. You aremine. An object. A possession. Tonight, I will make that truth an undeniable, physical reality.”
Her eyes widen, a dawning horror in their depths. “No.” The word is a choked whisper.
“‘No’ is not a word you are permitted to use,” I say, my voice reverting to a low, cold hiss. I reach for her, my hand closing around her upper arm. Her flesh is soft, her bones delicate. I could snap her arm with a slight increase in pressure. She knows it.
“Please,” she begs, her voice breaking. “Don’t.”
“It is too late for pleading,” I say, pulling her toward the sleeping chamber. She resists, a futile, desperate struggle against my superior strength. It is like a songbird fighting a storm. “This is not a request. It is a command. You will obey.”
I push her into the chamber and let the door swing shut, plunging us into the familiar dimness. She stumbles toward the pallet of furs, catching herself before she falls. She turns to face me, her body trembling, her face a pale mask of terror and defiance.
“This is wrong,” she says, her voice shaking.
“The only thing wrong here is your delusion that you have a choice,” I say, advancing on her. I begin to unfasten the clasps of my tunic. “You are my property. Your body is mine to use as I see fit.”
I stand before her, my chest bare, the golden scales glittering in the moonlight. I am a Prince. A predator. A god in her small, fragile world. I expect her to weep, to collapse.
She does not. She lifts her chin, her eyes blazing with a fire that I find utterly, dangerously, captivating. “Then I will give you nothing. You can take my body, but you will never have me.”
A cruel smile touches my lips. “We shall see.”
I reach for her, and this time, my touch is not a threat. It is a caress. My fingers trail down her arm, over the soft skin ofher stomach, tracing the edge of the silk tunic. She shudders, a violent tremor, but she does not pull away.
“You say no,” I murmur, my lips close to her ear. “But your body tells a different story.” I can smell it now, the subtle shift in her scent. The clean warmth is now laced with the sweet, musky aroma of arousal. Her body is betraying her. “You are afraid. But you also desire this. You desire me.”
“I don’t,” she lies, her voice thin.
“Liar,” I whisper, my hand moving lower, pressing against the silk between her thighs. She is wet. Hot and wet for me. The proof of her desire is a heady, triumphant victory. I press my fingers against her, and she lets out a choked gasp, her hips giving an involuntary twitch.
“You feel that?” I murmur, my voice a low, seductive growl. “That is the truth. Your truth. Say it.”
“No.”
“Say it, Amara,” I command, my fingers moving, rubbing against her through the silk, drawing another broken sound from her throat. “Tell me you want me.”
A tear traces a path down her cheek, but her eyes are closed, her head thrown back. “I… I want…” she chokes out.
“You want what?” I press, relentless.
“I want you,” she finally whispers, the words a surrender. A victory so sweet it is almost painful.
“Good,” I say, and then I am tearing the silk from her body.
I lay her down on the furs, her skin luminous in the moonlight. She is a masterpiece of soft curves and pale, vulnerable flesh. For a moment, I am frozen by the sheer beauty of her. The Prince, the strategist, the cold, calculating mind—it all recedes, leaving only the male, the predator, the worshipper.
My touch, when it comes, is not what I intended. I meant to be rough, to dominate, to reinforce her status as an object. But my hands move with a strange, reverent gentleness. I trace thecrescent mark on her neck, my claw just ghosting her skin. I kiss the path of her tear, tasting the salt and her sorrow.
