Page 9 of Naga General's Mate

His warrior’s instinct recognized that carefully hidden strength. The way she gripped the basket spoke of controlled power, not submission.

“My pleasure.” Brivul’s scales rippled as he maintained his intimidating posture over the vendor’s stall.

Brivul suddenly plucked the heavy basket from her hands. “Allow me.”

Her shoulders tensed, but she didn’t pull away. “I can manage.”

“A security officer’s duty includes protecting people from unscrupulous vendors and their rotting produce,” he joked.

A ghost of a smile crossed her face. The scent of jasmine and vanilla drifted from her skin, cutting through the market’s aroma.

“I’m Mila,” she said shyly, although her voice carried a hint of warmth.

“Brivul.” His tail swayed as they moved between the stalls. “You handled that vendor well.”

“Practice.” She paused at a spice merchant’s display. “Though I appreciate the backup.”

His scales tingled as she selected fragrant herbs, her movements precise and graceful. No ordinary slave, this one. The way she carried herself, the sharp intelligence in those green eyes—she was dangerous. And fascinating.

“The cinnamon’s fresh today.” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “From the southern provinces.”

“You know your spices?”

“My mother was a healer. The scents bring back memories.”

Her fingers traced the edge of a jar. “What brought you to Jorvla?”

“A change of scenery.” The half-truth tasted bitter on his tongue.

They fell into an easy rhythm, moving from stall to stall. She asked about Niri customs, and he found himself sharing stories of his homeland’s festivals and traditions. Her laughter at his description of a disastrous harvest celebration loosened something in his chest.

Too soon, her basket brimmed with purchases. “I should return.” She reached for her goods.

Their hands brushed. Lightning shot through his scales. His mating instincts roared to life, demanding he claim this femalewho smelled of spice and strength. His tail coiled tightly as ancient Niri instincts warred with rational thought.

“Thank you.” She pulled back, a flush coloring her cheeks. “For everything.”

Brivul forced his claws to release the basket, every muscle screaming in protest. The warrior in him recognized a worthy mate, but she was human and a slave.

Completely forbidden.

Brivul watched Mila disappear into the market crowd, his claws flexing with the need to chase her. Her scent lingered—jasmine, vanilla, and something uniquely her that called to his most primitive instincts.

“Mate.” The word slipped out in a low growl. His tail lashed against the dusty ground.

A group of market-goers scattered at his display of agitation. Brivul forced his muscles to relax, though every fiber of his being screamed to follow her trail.

“She belongs to someone else,” he reminded himself.

His warrior’s pride rebelled at the thought. Back on Nirum, he’d have claimed her without hesitation. But here? He was nothing but a failed general playing security guard.

The market sounds faded as memories of the civilian ship’s explosion flashed through his mind. More lives he’d failed to protect. Just like he couldn’t protect Mila now.

“Everything all right, sir?” a vendor called out.

“Fine.” Brivul hissed, letting his intimidating presence silence further questions.

He slithered back toward the clinic, his movements stiff with frustrated tension. The rational part of his mind knew pursuing her would only bring trouble. She was property here—the thought made his scales crawl—and he had no right to interfere.

---