Page 20 of Craving His Venom

Crick studies me, slitted eyes narrowing. “You’ve been different lately. Jumpy. More prone to hush the staff or bark orders. And then, this surprising generosity with the new maid...”

He trails off, but I hear the unspoken question. My grip tightens on the spear. “What are you implying?”

He shrugs, tail twitching behind him in a half coil. “Just that you never gave gifts to any other servant. Not that I know of. So either you’re going soft, or you have some scheme in mind.”

A low growl forms in my throat. “My reasons are my own.”

Crick lifts a hand in a placating gesture. “I’m not judging, just curious. The staff notices. People are talking, you know.”

My jaw clenches. The idea that my attempt at a small kindness is already fueling rumors needles me. “She remains a servant,” I say darkly, voice dropping. “That’s all.”

Crick looks unconvinced but doesn’t press further. Instead, he jerks his chin at my spear. “If you want a sparring round, I’m free. If not, I’ll let you brood.”

I glance at the weapon in my hands, then toss it aside, frustrated. My focus is shattered anyway. “I’m done here.”

He nods slowly, stepping aside as I pass. “Don’t lose your edge, my lord,” he murmurs, not unkindly. “We might need that soon.”

I don’t dignify that with a response. Tension thrums in my chest like a coiled spring as I make my way back inside. If the staff senses my distraction, it won’t be long before the entire household starts speculating. The last thing I need is gossip about me coddling a human.

I slip through the halls, ignoring the murmurs of a few passing servants. Eventually, I drift into the library, hoping the hush of scrolls and books might calm my thoughts. Thelibrary walls are lined with old tomes describing the history of Nagaland, ancient rituals, and even a few volumes that delve into rumored magic. A tall lamp stands by a reading table, casting warm light across the parchment.

Settling at the table, I unroll a scroll that details the lineage of naga warlords. My eyes skim the text, but I fail to absorb its words. The image of Mira’s hesitant acceptance of my gift keeps intruding. Why does it matter so much if she’s comfortable here? Because an unsettled servant is a liability, I tell myself. Yet I recall how my chest tightened when she looked uncertain. That reaction suggests motivations far beyond pragmatic concerns.

A soft voice startles me from the doorway. “My lord?”

I glance up, heart giving a small lurch. Mira stands there with a tray holding a carafe of water and a single glass. She meets my gaze for a moment before focusing on the desk. “Sahrine told me you often spend late hours here. I thought you might want a drink.”

She steps forward, placing the tray on a corner of the table. The lamp’s glow highlights the gentle contours of her face and the soft coil of her hair, now neatly pinned back with the comb. My pulse flutters at the sight of that jade glint in her dark curls. It feels more intimate than it should, seeing something so personal nestled against her skin.

I clear my throat. “Thoughtful,” I murmur, forcing composure. I pour the water, ignoring the slight tremor in my hand. “You’re moving well, I see.”

She touches her ankle reflexively. “It’s better now.”

Silence hovers, laden with unsaid truths. I sip the water, sensing her eyes on me. The air between us hums. A corner of my mind notes how her posture is both wary and intrigued, as if she can’t decide whether I’m friend or foe. Then again, I’m not sure I know which I prefer to be.

Eventually, she summons the courage to speak softly. “You gave me more freedom. I appreciate it.”

My response emerges clipped. “It benefits the household if you can handle more responsibilities. Less waste of your skills.”

She seems to weigh that, then nods. “Understood.”

Her gaze slides across the library shelves, lingering on the ornate spines of ancient books. “I never imagined reading would be so prized here. The slavers taught us humans that naga rely on venom and force, not knowledge.”

A faint smirk tugs at my lips. “You believe we have no interest in scholarship? We shaped entire cities from jungle stone. That demands more than brute strength.”

She places a hand on the nearest shelf, trailing fingers over a battered tome. “I can see that now.”

A spark of curiosity flickers in her eyes, and she looks at me again. “Do you—” she starts, then hesitates. “Is there a reason you keep so many scrolls?”

I arch a brow, intrigued despite myself. “I was once heir to a lineage that valued both war and wisdom,” I admit, voice low. “Knowledge is a power of its own, if you wield it correctly.”

She nods, absorbing the words. For a moment, we stand in a quiet bubble where the hush of the library cocoons us. My eyes land on the comb in her hair, noticing how it nestles securely in her dark curls. Satisfaction pulses through me at the sight, though I maintain an unreadable expression.

Mira shifts her weight. “Thank you...for the comb,” she says again, softer this time. “It’s more than I deserve.”

A prickle of frustration surfaces. “Deserve?” I echo. “You speak as if you are unworthy of small kindnesses.”

She flinches slightly. “I’ve never been given anything so...fine without a heavy cost.”

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