Page 30 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

A growl ripples through my chest, restrained, controlled.

They are speaking of her.

I move soundlessly through the undergrowth, my senses narrowing as I see them.

Three mercenaries stand beneath the thickest part of the canopy, where the vines pulse faintly with bioluminescent light, revealing the ragged state of their captive.

Seren is on her knees, one arm bent at an unnatural angle as she struggles against the bruising grip of the largest one. His hand is clamped around her throat, forcing her still. Her mouth is parted, breath hard, but her eyes, they burn.

No fear. Only fury.

She shifts, testing his hold, her body coiled like she’s waiting for the moment to strike.

The minotaur holding her chuckles. “The bounty said nothing about her putting up this much of a fight.”

Bounty.

The word strikes through me, a sharp and unwelcome truth.

Jalith has begun to pay for her return.

Seren growls something I can’t hear, but it makes the second mercenary laugh, nudging the third with his elbow. “Shall we tire her out before taking her back?”

That sentence seals their fate.

My blade is unsheathed before my body even acknowledges the movement. The steel hums against the thick jungle air, a whisper before the storm.

The first mercenary, the one pinning Seren, doesn’t even have time to react before my sword buries deep into his ribs.

His breath catches in a gurgled choke, shock flickering in his dull eyes before I twist the blade, wrenching it upward through muscle and bone. The release of blood is instant, warm and sickly as it spills over my wrist.

Seren collapses to the ground as his grip on her fails, coughing, gasping, but she does not hesitate. Her hand snaps to the dagger hidden at her hip, her body already shifting into a defensive stance as the other two react.

The second minotaur lunges, swinging a crude axe toward my skull.

He is too slow.

I sidestep, tail whipping around in a sharp, precise strike that sends him crashing into a thick tree trunk. The force shakes the canopy, leaves and vines raining down like shattered glass.

He groans, dazed, but not dead.

A mistake. I do not let mistakes linger.

I move before he can recover, blade slicing cleanly through the thick muscle of his exposed throat. His body slumps, blood pooling beneath his massive form.

The third hesitates.

A terrible choice.

His instinct tells him to run.

My instincts do not allow it.

I am on him before his foot leaves the ground. My claws sink deep into his chest, piercing through the weak protection of his armor, feeling the frantic, stuttering beat of his heart beneath my palm.

He gasps, his mouth forming around a plea, but I don’t let him finish.

A sharp twist, and the beat stops.

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