Page 22 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

Another warrior falls, his body crashing against the blood-drenched sand.

A victor stands above him, tail coiled, muscles thrumming with the euphoria of conquest.

He doesn't kill his fallen opponent.

He bares his fangs in respect.

The defeated warrior kneels, pressing a hand to the sand, acknowledging his loss.

There is no shame here.

Only the knowledge that he will fight again.

I let my fingers curl against my sides, pressing into my palms. I had expected something else entirely from this world.

From this naga standing beside me, the one who has declared me his without chains, without force.

The crowd stills.

A new challenger steps forward.

He is larger than the others, his black scales streaked with silver, his eyes older, sharper.

The murmurs ripple through the stands, a name whispered like a warning.

Veyron.

I shift slightly, but Xirath’s tail flicks, a fraction of a movement, so slight I almost miss it.

A warning.

Veyron tilts his head toward me, his gaze assessing, weighing.

Something in my stomach twists.

I have seen that look before.

Xirath doesn't turn his head, but his voice is steel when he speaks.

"You will not challenge me today, Veyron."

The larger naga considers this.

He smiles.

"It is not you I challenge."

The world narrows to a singular point.

To the way Xirath’s body goes completely still.

Not in fear.

In calculated, measured restraint.

Veyron shifts his weight, the sand shifting beneath his tail. "The human. She doesn't belong here."

Something cold slithers down my spine, but I don't let it show.

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