Page 4 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

He doesn't strike. He doesn't force my knees to the dirt.

He waits.

I keep my expression unreadable, focusing on the road ahead. "Your arrogance is exhausting," I mutter.

He hums, considering. "You’ve met worse."

A statement. Not a question.

Something in my chest coils too tight, my fingers brushing the ring on my hand before I realize what I’m doing. A nervous habit I need to break.

The road winds into steeper cliffs, the mist thickening below. Somewhere in the distance, the first glimmer of Nagaland flickers through the gloom, trees piercing the sky, the faint glow of firelight in the middle of a green forest and grasslands.

I will not be taken into that place in silence.

"You claim ownership," I say, watching his profile, "but you hesitate."

A muscle ticks in his jaw. "Explain."

I lift my bound hands just enough to catch the dim torchlight. "You haven’t pulled this chain once. You bought me, but you don’t treat me like property. You watch me as if waiting for something. What is it?"

His golden gaze shifts to me, unreadable, assessing. Then, in a voice softer than I expect, he murmurs, "I am deciding what you are."

The words should send ice through me. Should remind me that I am at his mercy. But they only fuel the fire.

"Then let me make it easier for you," I say, stopping just before the bridge that leads into Nagaland. The threshold of my fate.

He halts beside me.

I face him fully, lifting my chin. "I am not a pet. I am not a prize. I am not yourlittle mouse."

The torches flanking the gates flicker, their golden light casting jagged shadows over his obsidian scales. For a long moment, he says nothing.

Slow, deliberate, his tail coils around my ankles, the pressure feather-light but undeniable. Not a threat. A reminder.

"You are mine," he says simply.

A statement. A claim. A challenge.

I stare up at him, refusing to cower, refusing to flinch. The wind howls through the ravine, but it is nothing compared to the storm between us.

"Then break me, Lord Xirath," I whisper. "Or let me go."

The words hang between us, heavy, waiting to be answered.

His fingers twitch, his control slipping, just for an instant. And I smile.

For all his power, for all his certainty, he doesn't touch me.

3

XIRATH

The road vanishes beneath my coils as we crest the ridge, and beyond the valley, Nagaland rises from the jungle like a beast crouching in the shadows.

The spires of Kario stretch skyward, each black stone tower carved with the victories of my ancestors, each battlement wreathed in coiling vines, their leaves pulsing with the unnatural blue glow of Feher’s favor. The smell of rain lingers, not the aftermath of a storm, but the warning of one.

Seren doesn’t speak. But I can feel her watching. The way prey watches the shifting dark, wondering if it has already been seen.

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