Page 80 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

Not with amusement.

With something unreadable.

Something dangerous.

I force my chin up. "Fight me."

A slow exhale through his nose. His tail flicks once, the ridges flexing.

"You want to fight me?" His voice is low, steady, deadly.

The challenge is a slow drag of steel between us.

I do not waver.

"You fight them every day," I say, voice sharp. "You train them. You bleed with them. So fight me."

"You are not one of them."

My chest tightens, but I do not falter.

"No," I say. "I’m not."

Those words settles heavily in me like shackles.

His fingers curl at his sides, claws flexing just enough to scrape against the stone.

"This is what you want?" His voice is quiet, dangerous.

"No," I whisper.

But I do not take it back.

If I do not fight, if I do not stand before him, make him see what he is choosing to leave behind.

I will have already lost.

He exhales, slow, controlled, and then steps back, motioning for me to enter.

The door closes behind me and we move to his private training area.

35

SEREN

The private arena is nothing like the grand battle pits of the city, but it feels just as suffocating. It’s just them with no other witnesses to this challenge.

High stone walls curve around us, torches mounted at intervals, their glow flickering against the polished black floor. This space was carved for one thing, combat. No audience. No distractions. Just warriors and the fight between them.

Xirath stands across from me, broad shoulders set, golden eyes unreadable.

His tail coils slightly, the ridged muscles shifting beneath his scaled skin, a sign of his barely leashed patience.

I roll my shoulders, flexing my fingers around the twin daggers I’d grabbed before leaving my chambers.

He has no weapon.

He doesn’t need one.

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