Page 41 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

She looks hungry.

My throat is dry, the edges of my thoughts fraying, unraveling into something I don’t to delve deeper in.

She should not make me feel this way.

But I want her to be mine anyway.

18

SEREN

The crowd still watches.

Heat lingers in my limbs, muscles vibrating with the aftermath of the fight. Blood, still wet, clings to my knuckles, streaking my forearm where I wiped it away. My pulse pounds, not from exertion, but from exhilaration.

Orith’s sharp breaths fill the space behind me, his stance still rigid with defeat. I do not look back. His loss is his own burden to carry.

Naga warriors murmur from the raised platforms, their gazes locked onto me not as prey but as something else. Something they cannot categorize.

Xirath stands apart from the others, his golden gaze locked onto mine with a quiet intensity that settles like a hook beneath my skin.

I won.

I step over Orith’s still-kneeling form, uncaring if it is an insult. Let them feel it. Let them see that I am no longer the fragile thing they thought I was.

Xirath’s tail twitches against the stone floor, a subtle, sharp movement.

He felt it too.

The shift.

The moment where I stopped fighting to survive and started fighting to dominate.

I refused to be owned.

I want to be feared.

The gathered warriors part as I pass through them, my steps slow, measured. Their whispers press against my back, the smell of iron thick in my lungs. The night hums with the remnants of the battle, and I relish it.

Xirath waits at the entrance to the stronghold, arms folded across his broad chest, expression unreadable. But his eyes have not left me.

He is seeing me differently now.

I do not hate it.

Flamesflicker against the stone walls, casting long, shifting shadows. The smell of roasted meat and spiced broth hangs in the air, thick, cloying. I should be ravenous.

I am not.

Xirath sits across from me, his expression carved from stone and silence. A plate rests between us, fresh meat sliced into bite-sized pieces, a steaming bowl of thick broth beside it.

I’m surprised that he eats human food. Some naga have develop a penchant for it, but from the knowledge I glean, they have their own diet.

I remain still.

He watches. He waits.

“Eat,” he commands, voice edged with impatience.

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