Page 24 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

This is not about escape.

This is about proving I still can.

That my body does not belong to Xirath, that his claim over me in the arena was only words, spoken to protect me from his kind, from their laws, from whatever rules dictate this world of beasts.

But words do not make me his.

The jungle shifts around me, alive in a way I have never felt before.

The vines hum softly, charged with magic that does not belong to me, but does not reject me either.

A sharp pulse in my ribs tells me I am not alone.

I stop. Listen.

Something moves.

Not a beast. Something bigger.

The sound is subtle, a presence shifting through the dense foliage, careful, deliberate.

Predators.

My fingers tighten around the dagger hidden at my hip.

The glow of the jungle is not enough to reveal them yet, but I can feel them drawing closer.

Waiting.

Testing me.

A prickle runs along the base of my spine, a whisper of instinct screaming run.

I do not listen.

The shadows break.

Figures step into the glow of the vines, tall, broad, their bodies armored in thick leather and plated steel.

Minotaurs.

Jalith’s mercenaries.

The breath in my throat locks into place, my pulse a hammering thing inside my ribs.

I take a slow step back, my grip tightening on the blade.

The largest one, a brute of blackened horns and jagged scars across his chest tilts his head as he studies me.

"He was right," he rumbles, his voice like crushed stone.

He.

I do not let the word settle.

"Where is your master, little human?" he continues, taking a step forward, the weight of him shifting the very earth.

I bare my teeth. "I don’t have one."

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