Page 3 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

I don't smile.

The truth hums in my bones, in the way she watches me like an axe waiting to strike, in the way my fingers curl against the chain, though I don't pull.

I have spent years searching for something that has no name.

As she walks beside me, silent, storm-eyed, defiant, I realize this time I don't feel alone.

2

SEREN

The road stretches endlessly, jagged cliffs to one side, a sheer drop into mist-choked ravines on the other. Blackened trees, twisted as if writhing in their final throes, claw toward the sky. No birds. No signs of life beyond the skeletal remains of something too large to be human, ribs jutting from the earth like the spines of a fallen beast.

We ride through a graveyard.

Not of the dead, but of the forsaken.

The naga lord walks ahead, silent, his massive form cutting through the darkness like a blade through silk. He is not a man on horseback, no steed’s hooves to drum against the packed earth. Only the sinuous glide of his tail whispering over stone and the occasional stomp of his feet. A shadow given form.

I am chained to him.

Literally. The thin silver links dangle from my wrists, deceptively delicate. If I tried to break them, I’d find they were anything but. He hasn’t used them to drag me forward, though. Not yet. He doesn’t need to. I walk at his side because running would be foolish. A hunted creature doesn't flee until escape is possible.

I keep my steps light, my pace even. Not submissive. Not hurried. Controlled. The terrain demands careful footing, one misstep and I’d tumble into the ravine below, joining whatever unfortunate souls never made it through this place. I doubt he would stop me.

Not out of cruelty. Out of indifference.

To him, I am a curiosity. A plaything to be studied before being discarded like all the others. I will not be discarded.

"You’re quiet, little mouse," he muses without looking back.

Something sharp digs into my gut, though I refuse to let it show.Little mouse.The nickname slithers over my skin, burrows into my spine, curls into the space where rage festers.

I have been called many things in my life. Property. Pet. Treasure. Slave. But never an animal.

I will not let him make me one.

I let the silence stretch, let him think his words hold no weight. Then, evenly, deliberately, I say, "Seren."

The movement of his tail falters. A fraction of a second, barely noticeable. But I see it.

I press on. "If you must call me something, call me by my name."

He doesn't stop moving, but I feel the change in him, a subtle tightening of his coils, a glimmer of something unreadable in the golden slits of his gaze when he finally glances my way.

"Seren," he repeats, as if testing the word, tasting it on his tongue. Then, "No."

A flick of his tail, too close to my ankle, a warning wrapped in amusement. He enjoys this.

"You will call me Lord Xirath," he commands, as if it is a decree etched in stone. "That is how this works."

I nearly laugh. As if I would ever call him that.

"You paid for my body," I say instead, voice steady. "Not my submission."

His gaze sharpens. "Then I’ll take that as well."

Dangerous. Not the words themselves, but the certainty with which he speaks them. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t bare his fangs or brandish a weapon. He simply speaks as if this is inevitable, as if I am already unraveling and he is simply waiting for me to see it.

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