Page 34 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

A breath hitches in my throat, rage and humiliation twisting together, tangled into something ugly.

“I was not weak,” I grind out.

Xirath steps forward again, and I force myself not to move back.

“If I had not arrived when I did,” he murmurs, each word sharp, precise, “what would have happened, Seren?”

I hate that he uses my name.

I hate that he is right.

My teeth clench as I shift my wrist slightly, staring at the sigil seared into my skin, a crest I do not yet understand, magic that does not yet belong to me.

He watches me watching it.

Softly, dangerously, he says, “It is not a collar.”

I lift my chin, defiant. “Then what is it?”

His voice lowers, the restraint in it a thing that coils and tightens.

“Protection.”

The word scrapes against something raw inside me.

Because I should reject it.

Should tear it from my skin, spit in his face, remind him I belong to no one.

I do not.

That terrifies me.

15

XIRATH

The stench of arrogance enters before the emissary does. I’m still thinking of Seren running away, and is in a bad mood.

The emissary seems to be a good way to release my fury.

I do not rise from my throne as the dark elf strides into the chamber, his silver robes flowing behind him in a display meant to impress. The fabric glimmers with enchantment, embroidered sigils glowing faintly against the obsidian weave. His hair, sleek and bound in braids too intricate for a soldier, marks him as one of the chosen lapdogs.

A disappointment.

I had expected someone worth killing.

The naga escort flanks him on either side, their grips tight on their spears. Their expressions remain unreadable, but their tails coil slightly, a silent warning to the dark elf that he stands among predators.

He does not seem to care.

His crimson eyes flick lazily over my warriors, over the walls of my stronghold, and finally, over me.

His smirk is slow, deliberate.

“Is this what passes for a throne in this backwater nest?” His voice is silk-drenched venom, the accent of his kind a lilting mockery of true power. “I had expected something more… civilized.”

The two naga guards shift, but I do not signal them.

---