Page 51 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

I do not flinch.

Ahead, their leader, a dark elf with a scar running from temple to jaw, his expression eternally bored glances back. His lips curl in a mockery of a smile. “Tense, little human?”

I meet his gaze, letting silence sharpen my defiance.

The warriors surrounding us chuckle, dark amusement twisting their features.

“Perhaps she misses her master,” another muses, his voice coated in syrupy condescension. “The great Naga Lord. What a tragedy.”

The leader hums in agreement. “Abandoned so quickly. Maybe he was tired of his pet.”

The words sink their claws into my ribs, scraping against something raw.

Xirath would not abandon me.

Would he?

No.

He would come.

A sharp tug yanks me from my thoughts. “Hope is a fool’s curse, little thief,” the leader murmurs, his grin widening. “You won’t escape this time.”

They underestimate me.

Their arrogance is a gift, one I do not intend to waste.

Each step counts. Every shift in the jungle’s terrain, every loose stone beneath my feet, every twisted root, I memorize them all.

Waiting.

Timing.

We reach a narrow pass where the jungle thickens, shadows swallowing the path, the undergrowth rising in tangled walls. A perfect place to disappear.

The leader gestures to his men. “We camp here.”

Their mistake.

The moment their grips loosen, I move.

A sharp twist, a well-placed kick to the side of a knee. The dark elf gripping me staggers, a curse slipping from his lips. I wrench my hands up, ropes snapping under the force of my pull.

The jungle erupts into chaos.

I dive forward, fingers snatching the dagger from the belt of the nearest elf before he can react. The blade is foreign in my grip, but my intent is not.

Steel sinks into flesh.

A gurgled sound shudders from the warrior’s throat as blood spills hot over my hand.

They will not hesitate now.

Neither will I.

I bolt.

The jungle devours me, vines whipping against my arms as I plunge into the dark.

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