Page 20 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

Seren jerks back, but I don't let her go.

Not harsh. Not cruel.

But firm.

"You don't want them looking at you," I say again, softer now, just for her.

She doesn't deny it this time.

But she doesn't accept it either.

I release her.

She doesn't run.

The first challenger steps into the pit, his tail coiled, his fangs gleaming.

The fight begins.

But I don't watch him.

I watch her. She is not afraid of the blood.

I like it. It will be beautiful watching her drink the blood of her enemies, ain’t it?

10

SEREN

The clash of steel rings through the arena, a sound sharper than any scream, louder than the roar of the crowd.

I should be horrified.

I should look away.

But I don’t.

The first warrior lunges, his blade slicing the humid air between him and his challenger. The impact shudders through my bones, vibrating in my ribs like a second heartbeat.

The sand beneath them is already dark with spilled blood.

The way they move, it’s not just brutality, not just carnage.

It’s something else entirely.

It is not a mindless brawl. There is grace in it, a rhythm to the way the fighters strike, retreat, weave through each other’s defenses with the kind of ease that only comes from years of war. It is muscle memory turned into art, a deadly dance of precision and force.

It is beautiful.

The realization should unsettle me.

I should be sickened by the way one of the fighters twists his opponent’s wrist until bone snaps, should flinch as his fangs sink into the tender space between neck and shoulder.

Instead, I find myself watching, my breathing controlled, my pulse steady.

This is not like the violence I have suffered before.

That had been cruel. That had been something inflicted upon me.

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