Page 19 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

She doesn't belong here.

That is what they believe.

They are waiting to see if I agree.

A murmur rises through the arena. The warriors waiting for the first match are moving forward, stepping into the pit. The challenge is beginning.

The arena master, a naga older than most, his scales dulled with age but his presence as sharp as ever, lifts a clawed hand.

"The Trial of Blood begins," he intones, voice deep enough to shake the stone.

A roar rises from the crowd.

Seren flinches at the sound before she can stop herself.

They see it.

The shift in them is immediate, subtle, but I feel it. The moment prey is scented.

I exhale.

Enough.

I step forward, closing the space between us, until she has no choice but to tip her head to keep her glare locked on mine.

My voice drops low. "You don't want them looking at you."

A muscle in her jaw ticks. "I don't care."

I hum, letting my forked tongue flick out for the barest second, not at her, but around her.

Testing. Measuring.

I smile.

"Then allow me to be clear, little mouse."

I reach for her.

Not to grab. To claim.

The moment my fingers brush her throat, the crowd stills.

The attention shifts.

No longer a challenge to be won.

No longer a curiosity to be weighed.

She is mine.

I feel the way her pulse pounds beneath my palm, the way her breath stills in her throat, caught between rage and something else.

I say it again, for all to hear.

"Mine."

The arena erupts.

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