Page 43 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

The tension no longer belongs solely to me.

His fingers linger for a moment longer than necessary, the faintest press of skin against skin. Then they withdraw.

Victory flickers in his gaze.

But so does something else.

Something dangerous.

I swallow, throat tight, pulse thrumming in my ears. I refuse to be the one to break first.

I lean back, gaze steady, fingers tapping lightly against the corner of the table. “Happy now?”

His lips curve into something unreadable.

“For now.”

A slow, measured breath leaves my chest, but the fire still lingers, smoldering beneath my heart.

This game is not over.

19

XIRATH

The quiet between us is not peace.

Flames crackle low in the iron brazier, their flickering light casting long, predatory shadows against the stone walls. The aroma of spiced meat and woodsmoke lingers, mingling with something more potent, the charged weight of Seren’s presence across from me, her lips still parted from the food I forced her to take.

Her body remains still, yet tension coils in her muscles, coiled and waiting, a blade that has only begun to sharpen.

The shift in her during the fight had not been a fleeting thing. The taste of victory still lingers in her bones. She had enjoyed it, reveled in it.

I cannot stop thinking about it.

The human should not affect me like this.

She is not mine, not my mate. The curse has not lifted, the bond has not formed. Yet my focus remains on her, drawn despite logic, despite reason.

A sharp bang reverberates against the heavy doors. The deep, guttural voices of my warriors spill into the chamber before I grant them entry.

The doors swing open, revealing two naga guards, their bodies slick with sweat, their eyes gleaming with urgency.

The one in front, Veynar, one of my most trusted lieutenants bows sharply. “My lord, the western watchtower burns. Minotaur warbands have breached the outer perimeter.”

Seren shifts beside me, the flicker of movement immediate, instinctive.

The clatter of my cup against the table cuts through the room.

Minotaurs. The timing is too perfect to be anything but deliberate.

Jalith is behind this. His influence lingers in the shadows of this war.

I rise from my seat, my tail unfurling in a slow, lethal motion. The warriors standing before me do not flinch, but their tension is palpable.

“How many?”

Veynar’s throat works as he speaks. “Three legions. They move fast, better armed than expected. This is not a raid, my lord. It is an invasion.”

---