Page 55 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

A fresh boot connects with my stomach, sending me sprawling onto my side. Pain lances through my ribs, sharp and relentless. Dust and sweat coat my skin, turning the warmth of my own blood sticky against my back.

“Still not broken,” one of them muses, crouching near my head. His fingers dig into my jaw, forcing my chin up, making me meet his crimson gaze. “You really are a stubborn little thing.”

Another voice, this one taunting. “Shall we see how long that lasts?”

Fingers tighten in my hair, wrenching my head back, exposing my throat. My heartbeat thrums against my ribs, a frantic, wild rhythm that refuses to slow.

I will not beg.

Not for them. Not for mercy.

A fist collides with my cheek, sending my head snapping sideways, the iron taste of blood coating my tongue. Darkness flirts at the edges of my vision, beckoning, whispering.

No.

Not like this.

The elf at my side clicks his tongue, amused. “She’s fading.”

A different one kneels beside me, cold fingers tracing along the bruises blossoming across my ribs. “A shame,” he murmurs. “I was just beginning to enjoy this.”

The ring on my finger throbs, heavy and suffocating.

Jalith's magic cannot touch me, but these monsters? They do not need spells to break flesh.

They only need time.

They have all the time in the world.

A blade presses against my stomach, just above the waistband of my ruined tunic. Not deep enough to cut, just enough to warn.

The elf’s breath ghosts against my ear. “You could make this easier, you know.”

I do not answer.

The pressure increases, teasing. “Your master is not coming for you.”

The words slither into my mind, wrapping around the fragile hope I have held onto since they dragged me into this hell.

Xirath.

He had fought for me once, claimed me in front of his people. Had I been wrong to believe he would come again?

Something inside my chest coils, pressing against the ache of my ribs, against the bruises, against the exhaustion trying to drag me under.

I refuse to die here.

A slow breath fills my burning lungs. My fingers inch toward the blade hidden beneath the folds of my tattered tunic.

They think I am too weak to fight back.

They think this is already over.

Idiots.

The dagger slips free. A flash of steel, a twist of my wrist.

The nearest dark elf jerks backward, a sharp, startled cry bursting from his lips. His fingers clutch at his thigh, blood spilling through his grip.

---