Page 109 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

She doesn’t argue, which means she agrees, but that does not mean she stands with me.

A flicker of hesitation in her stride. Subtle. But I catch it.

“Talyra,” I say, my voice sharp as steel.

She doesn’t look at me. “It’s my fault, isn’t it?”

I stop. Slowly turn.

Her throat bobs, fingers curling into the fabric of her belt. “I… spoke to her. Before she ran.”

A knife in the ribs would be kinder.

The silence is thick. Lethal.

“What did you do?”

She shifts. “Nothing—nothing like that. I just… pushed her a little. To see if she?—”

My hand is at her throat before I think to stop myself.

Her sharp inhale barely makes a sound as I press her back against the cold stone wall, my grip tightening.

She doesn’t fight.

Her golden eyes bore into mine, fearless. “You needed a push.”

I want to crush her windpipe.

“You made her run.” My voice is barely a whisper, nothing but raw, shaking fury.

Talyra’s lips press together, and her silence is an answer.

A mistake.

My claws dig in, but I do not squeeze. Not enough to kill.

She doesn’t struggle. She simply stares at me, resigned.

I could end her here. I should.

But I release her, shoving her away, my own rage feeling like it might consume me whole.

“If she is hurt,” I say, voice low, trembling with violence, “I will burn this kingdom to the ground. And I will start with you.”

Her shoulders square. Her chin lifts. “I’m still on your side, Xirath.”

“Then leave. And pray I never see you again.”

She hesitates then turns and walks away.

The storm inside me does not settle.

It worsens.

The scentof blood and sweat thickens the night air. The encampment looms ahead, a gathering of monstrous forms bathed in the glow of towering bonfires.

Minotaurs are creatures of war. They wear their kills on their skin, bones and rings, scars carved deep.

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