Page 28 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

Not for me.

For a she.

A woman.

The cold realization settles in my spine before I allow it to reach my mind.

They cannot mean her.

It is coincidence.

But I do not believe in coincidences.

The first elf gestures toward the path Seren walked not long ago. "The magic lingers. She carries something old. The artifact."

I bare my fangs.

Magic.

They are tracking magic.

“She’s wearing the ring,” a dark elf says.

I freeze as I recall Seren wearing an inconspicuous ring. What’s going on? A nagging sensation that they’re looking for her grows on me.

A slow, dangerous heat burns through my veins, my tail flicking behind me as I straighten.

They do not know who she is. Not yet.

They are still searching.

They will not get the chance.

The elf closest to me barely has time to turn his head before my blade is in his heart.

His gasp is swallowed by the jungle, the wet sound of steel meeting flesh lost beneath the hiss of shifting vines.

The other two react swiftly, but not fast enough.

One lunges, dagger flashing in the dim glow, quick and merciless. I shift, catching the blade with my clawed hand before it reaches my throat.

He struggles, but I am stronger.

I let him see it.

Let him feel the inevitability of his death.

Then I crush his wrist, bones snapping like dry branches.

His scream does not come. Because my fangs are already at his throat.

Blood bursts over my tongue, hot and metallic, thick with the magic that hums beneath elven skin.

The last one tries to run.

He does not make it three steps before my tail snakes around his legs, yanking him back into the dirt.

I crouch over him, pressing a single claw against his ribs, just enough to dig into the fabric of his armor.

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