Page 118 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

Claws meet steel, spells crackling against my skin, each strike shattering the floor beneath us. Jalith is fast, his precision lethal, but it does not matter. He is fighting a goddamn force of nature.

I catch his wrist mid-swing, twisting. The dagger clatters to the floor.

He grits his teeth.

I slam him into the stone. His body crumples under the force, blood pooling beneath him.

Jalith coughs, a broken laugh slipping through his lips. "It’s too late, you beast. The bond is formed."

Seren cries out, her body jerking as the spell tightens around her.

"No," I growl.

Jalith grins through his bloodied teeth. "You may have won this fight, Xirath. But she is still mine."

The runes beneath her glow again, magic curling like shackles.

I don’t think. I don’t hesitate.

I carve my claws through Jalith’s chest, my fingers wrapping around his heart.

His smirk falters, turning into something strangled, desperate. His lips part in disbelief, but no sound leaves them.

I rip his heart free.

Jalith’s body slumps forward.

The runes flicker. Then they die.

The spell shatters.

Seren collapses.

I’m there before she hits the floor, catching her, pulling her into my arms.

Her pulse is weak.

But she is mine.

52

XIRATH

The battle is over, but the blood has not dried.

Jalith's stronghold stands in ruin, his warriors dead or fleeing. The ceremonial chamber still stinks of burned magic and desperation, the remnants of the shattered bond still lingering in the air. My claws ache from the kills I’ve made, my muscles tight from battle, but I don’t stop moving.

Seren is in my arms. Her weight presses against my chest, her pulse weak but steady. My grip tightens around her as I step over the wreckage of what was meant to be her prison, ignoring the torn banners, the remnants of Jalith's rule crumbling into dust beneath my boots.

She needs rest. A place untouched by the filth of this place.

I find a chamber still intact, a bed draped in dark silks, undoubtedly prepared for their disgusting ritual. The thought of Jalith forcing her here, laying claim to what was never his, ignites a fresh wave of rage.

I lay her down carefully, brushing strands of damp hair from her face. The magic he used on her still lingers, its mark imprinted on her skin like invisible shackles. It will take time for it to fade. Time for her strength to return.

But she’s here. Alive.

My fingers linger against her jaw, a silent promise.

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