Page 35 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

He is testing me.

How far can he press before I rip his tongue from his throat?

I lean back slightly, tilting my head. “You have traveled far to insult your betters.”

The elf’s smile widens, flashing sharp teeth. “Ah, so the naga still cling to their old delusions of grandeur.” He takes a slow step forward, his boots clicking against the polished black stone. “I was sent with a simple message, but I must admit, I did not expect the infamous Xirath Va’Therin to look so…” His eyes flick down the length of my coiled tail, lips twitching. “Domesticated.”

A low rumble of displeasure stirs in my chest, but my face remains impassive.

He expected a reaction.

He will not get it.

“I imagine your master sent you to deliver more than an attempt at provocation,” I say, voice cutting through the chamber like a blade. “Speak your message before I grow bored.”

The emissary grins.

He enjoys this.

Enjoys the belief that he stands untouchable in my halls.

The fool.

His hands clasp behind his back, spine impossibly straight. “Lord Jalith wishes to be merciful.” He rolls the words out slowly, savoring them. “He understands that you have taken in a runaway, a piece of property that does not belong to you. He is willing to forgive this… transgression.”

I arch a brow. “Forgive.”

The elf nods, lips curving into something smug.

“In his generosity, he will even allow you to send her back intact.” He tilts his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Though, of course, if she is damaged, we will have to renegotiate. Jalith does not take kindly to having his belongings mishandled.”

My claws dig into the armrest of my throne, the scrape of talons against stone the only sound in the vast chamber.

I had anticipated an envoy.

Had known that word would reach Jalith eventually.

What I had not anticipated was this level of idiocy.

The dark elf’s grin grows. “Or, if returning her is too difficult a task, I suppose my master could come himself. Burn this place to its foundations. Take back what is his from the ashes.”

The room sharpens.

The warriors in the chamber do not move, but the air shifts, tension coiling like a struck chord.

I rise slowly, my tail unfurling, the weight of my presence filling the space between us.

The elf has the good sense to step back.

Just slightly.

His expression falters for half a breath.

“Tell your master,” I say, voice a quiet promise of ruin, “that he will not need to waste his magic on a fire.”

The emissary’s smirk begins to return. “Ah, so you will?—”

I move before the words can finish.

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