Page 33 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

The space between us shortens in three slow, deliberate steps.

“I know you are safer here than in the hands of those who would see you broken.”

A flicker of something unfamiliar slides through my chest, not gratitude. Never that.

But the weight of truth in his words settles deep, unwanted but undeniable.

The world outside his walls does not want to keep me.

It wants to own me.

“You think I should thank you?” I force my voice into something sharp, something bitter. “Is that what you’re waiting for?”

Xirath’s lips twitch, just barely. “You would rather bleed in the dirt than sleep in my bed.”

“Sleep in your bed?” My laugh lacks humor, my fingers twitching against the silk sheets. “You must have carried me here, then. Was I supposed to wake up on the floor?”

His tail flicks against the rock again, that damnable restraint of his a blade’s edge from snapping.

“If I wanted you on the floor, little mouse, you would be there.”

Heat blooms in my chest, not desire, but fury. “Do not call me that.”

He exhales slowly, as if weighing whether the argument is worth entertaining.

His hand moves, too fast for me to react.

I jolt back as his fingers wrap around my wrist, firm but not cruel, unyielding but not punishing. My breath stills as his thumb brushes over the inside of my wrist, the movement precise, deliberate.

A sharp sting burns against my skin.

I try to jerk away, but his grip is unshakable.

“What are you doing?” My voice is quiet, but the demand lingers beneath it.

Xirath says nothing at first, his gaze fixed on the spot where his clawed fingers press against my wrist. A slow, spreading heat builds beneath his touch, a faint glow seeping through my skin.

Magic.

I snarl and pull back, but he releases me before I can fully wrench away.

A mark remains.

Faint, barely more than a shadow beneath my skin, but it is there.

I press my fingers to the spot, pulse hammering beneath my touch. “You branded me.”

His golden gaze remains steady. “I marked you.”

There is no apology in his voice. No hesitation.

I want to rip the mark from my skin, to scrape it off and throw it in his face. “You had no right.”

His head tilts slightly, the way it always does when he is deciding how much truth to give me.

“Then you should not have been weak enough to need it.”

The words sink in deep, cutting like a dagger slipping through unguarded ribs. Not cruel. Just true.

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