Page 15 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

Disoriented, I lash out, twisting, snarling, only to be caught, pinned. My legs tangle in the sheets as clawed fingers tighten around my wrists, forcing my arms behind my back.

Three naga loom over me, their golden eyes glowing like embers in the dim chamber. Warriors. Stronger. Faster. Trained to subdue.

I thrash harder. "Let go of me!"

The largest of them chuckles, amusement slithering through his voice like something sickly sweet. "Lord Xirath commands your presence in the arena, human."

The arena.

The words send a sharp spike of alarm through me, twisting in my chest.

I still.

Not in surrender, I am never that. But stillness is a weapon, too, when wielded correctly.

They take it as compliance. Fools.

The moment their grip loosens, I strike, shoving my knee into the ribs of the nearest one, yanking against the iron strength of their holds, my breath sharp with rage.

I get a single step before another coils his tail around my legs, wrenching me backward, my body colliding against the unyielding heat of his chest.

A hiss, low and dark. "Defiant little thing."

"Unhand me," I grit out.

"You are his," another murmurs, the words laced with something unreadable. "If you were not, we would have let you run."

I am not his.

I open my mouth to spit the words at them, but a thick length of cloth is forced over my shoulders, covering my nightclothes, not armor, not chains. A dress.

Dark silk, woven with faint silver embroidery along the edges, soft against my skin. Fine. Expensive. Like a thing to be displayed.

Revulsion claws up my throat.

But I have no choice.

They pull me through the halls, their grip firm, but not cruel. Not bruising. Not like my previous master’s men had been.

That is almost worse.

It means they don't need to hurt me to make me yield.

Because it means they think I will.

The sounds hit first.

Not the roar of the crowd, but the anticipation of it, the hush before the storm, the hum of a hundred voices murmuring, waiting, aching for blood.

I am dragged through the corridors of the coliseum, past walls carved with stories of warriors long dead, their victories etched into the very foundation of this place.

The ground beneath my feet is still warm from the battles that came before.

I don't ask what I am walking toward.

I don't need to.

The stench of fresh blood clings to the sand of the pit, the iron tang sharp, mingling with something thicker, something heady.

---