Page 40 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

I have tested her.

Have touched her. Have waited for the bond to spark, for my curse to break, for my body to accept her as fate demands.

It never has.

She moves through the fight like she belongs to it.

Like she belongs to me.

Orith lunges again, tail snapping toward her like a coiled whip, but she’s already there, blade meeting his strike with a brutal, unforgiving precision.

The fight is not elegant.

It is not calculated.

It is raw, ruthless, violent.

Blood streaks her cheek, not her own.

Her lips part, breath heavy, but her eyes shine.

The bloodlust hums beneath her skin, a quiet, dangerous thrill she cannot hide.

I have seen humans fight to survive.

I have seen them beg, bargain, crawl to escape their fates.

Seren does not beg.

She does not bargain.

She does not want to escape.

She wants more.

Orith snarls, but his movements slow, his wounds weakening his strikes. She sees it.

She smells it.

I see the exact moment she decides to end it.

A quick sidestep, a calculated pivot, and she is behind him, blade pressing against his exposed throat.

A heartbeat of silence.

Her voice, soft and sharp at the same time.

“Yield.”

The gathered warriors watch, waiting.

Orith's claws twitch, hesitation pulsing between them like a tether waiting to snap. His jaw clenches, his tail thrashing once before he releases a sharp, bitter hiss.

He steps back.

He yields.

Seren lowers the blade, but she does not look relieved.

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