Page 16 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

Desire.

This is not just a battleground. This is where mates are claimed.

My stomach turns, but I keep my face smooth. Expressionless. I will not give them the pleasure of my fear.

They shove me forward.

The sun slants through the open arches above, painting the arena floor in gold and shadow.

They are waiting.

The naga.

Warriors, nobles, challengers, their eyes rake over me as if assessing a prize yet to be won, their forked tongues flicking, tasting my presence.

A chill slithers down my spine, but I hold myself still, chin lifted.

I don't belong to them, especially not to Xirath.

The murmurs rise, some amused, others interested. A few voices whisper low, mocking.

A human in the arena. A human in their sacred place.

Disgusting, some of them will think.

A curiosity, others will murmur.

An invitation, the worst of them will believe.

I grit my teeth, fight the urge to fold my arms across my chest, to cover myself beneath the silks they forced me into.

Xirath steps into the pit.

The breath that leaves the crowd is almost a thing I can taste.

Not fear.

Respect. Anticipation. A hunger that doesn't belong to me.

Xirath moves through the ground like a shadow carved from obsidian, golden eyes sharp enough to cut, the crimson streaks along his arms and tail a brutal reminder of what he is.

Of what he has done.

The ground trembles faintly beneath the force of his presence.

Not from magic. From sheer, undeniable weight.

They look at me differently now.

Not as prey, not as an offering.

But as something already claimed.

My pulse hammers as he approaches, his steps slow, deliberate. The crowd leans in.

He doesn't look at them.

He only looks at me.

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