Page 57 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

One of the elves reaches for me, desperation in his movements.

Xirath moves faster.

A crack of bone, a sharp, choked scream, another body falls.

The last dark elf turns to flee.

Xirath lets him get three steps.

His tail snaps forward, coiling around the fleeing elf’s throat, lifting him effortlessly from the ground.

Panic flashes through the elf’s eyes.

Xirath does not grant him mercy.

The sound of his neck breaking is quiet, almost delicate.

His body drops, lifeless.

Silence descends, heavy, suffocating.

Xirath turns toward me, golden eyes burning, chest heaving.

The jungle stills.

Neither of us speaks.

I want to say something, but nothing comes.

His gaze traces over me, his expression unreadable.

Slowly, he steps forward.

The space between us shrinks, the air thick with something I cannot name.

His hand lifts, fingers ghosting over the bruises on my cheek, a flicker of something dangerous passing through his expression.

His voice is low, sharp as a blade. “Who did this?”

The bodies littering the jungle floor already answer for me.

He does not wait for a response.

His fingers press beneath my chin, tilting my face up, forcing me to meet his gaze.

“You ran,” he murmurs.

I swallow. “I had to.”

A slow, deliberate exhale. He does not let me go.

“Next time,” he says, voice dark, possessive, absolute.

He continues, his voice going lower, “Wait for me.”

25

XIRATH

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