Page 21 of Craving His Venom

Her words sink into my mind. I recall Crick’s caution about how naga lords rarely offer gifts freely. She likely expects ahidden price. Resentment flickers—have I truly done such a poor job showing that I won’t exploit her? Yet in fairness, the lines between us remain tangled.

“You owe me no debt for the comb,” I say, managing to keep my tone calm. “It pleases me that you use it.”

She studies me with a guarded expression, as though trying to decipher whether I’m lying. Then she lowers her gaze. “I’ll remember that.”

I turn back to the scroll, feigning absorption in the text. “You may go,” I murmur, unable to deal with the swirl of emotions any longer.

She bows her head, stepping away from the lamp’s circle of light. But before she vanishes into the corridor, she pauses. “If you ever need anything else... If I can assist, please let me know.”

Our eyes lock for a heartbeat. Then she slips out, leaving me with the rustle of parchment and the quiet sense that something intangible shifted between us. Air slips past my lips, unsteady. The tension in my chest feels both exhilarating and maddening, like standing on a precipice I never intended to approach.

Unable to focus, I roll the scroll shut and abandon the library. I find myself wandering through the manor, tail flicking in restless arcs behind me. The staff I pass dip their heads, but I barely acknowledge them. My thoughts circle back to the interplay of her voice, the tilt of her head, and the glint of jade in her hair. She seemed genuinely moved by the gift, yet I sense her caution.

Eventually, I end up in one of the smaller sitting rooms. A mural spans the wall here, depicting a stylized serpent coiling through a lush jungle scene. I recall commissioning it soon after I took control of this estate. I’d wanted a reminder of the power and isolation that define my domain. Now, I stare at the painted serpent, the green vines twisting around its scaled body, and I question how that solitude is changing.

Footsteps sound behind me, and I pivot to see Sahrine. She inclines her head as always. “My lord, you look troubled,” she says. “I saw Mira leaving the library. Did something happen?”

I keep my back straight, refusing to betray confusion. “Nothing worth noting.”

Sahrine’s blind gaze never wavers. “I notice your generosity toward her. Others notice too.”

“Let them whisper,” I say tersely.

She sighs, stepping closer. “If you show favor to a human, the council may see it as a challenge. You know how they treat those who break naga tradition.”

A flare of anger rises. “I am not breaking tradition. I gave her a comb—hardly an act of rebellion.”

Sahrine’s voice softens. “A gesture can carry weight, especially when it comes from you. I only caution you to be mindful.”

I run a claw over the mural’s surface. “I’m aware.”

She hesitates, then bows. “Very well, my lord.” With that, she leaves me alone again.

Hours slip past in uneasy contemplation. I eventually retreat to my chambers. The lamp in my bedroom casts dancing shadows along the walls adorned with muted serpent patterns. I remove my robe and sink onto the bed, letting out a long breath. Memories swirl of the day’s interactions—the slight bow of Mira’s head when she took the comb, the way her voice trembled with gratitude, the concern etched across her face as she offered a drink in the library.

I close my eyes, willing my mind to calm. The manor’s stillness settles over me like a second skin. Sleep doesn’t come easily, not when her voice echoes in my thoughts, not when the shape of her face lingers behind my eyelids. I can almost feel her presence, as though she stands in the corner, watching me with those wide eyes that hold both caution and reluctant trust.

The night drags on, and at last I slip into uneasy slumber. I dream of coiling vines wrapped around my arms, dragging me deeper into a jungle where I can’t see the path. In that dream, her voice calls out, urging me to break free. I wake with a start, chest heaving, the lamp’s flame flickering low.

The next day dawns with a strange clarity. Sahrine informs me that Mira continues to carry out her assigned tasks swiftly and efficiently. There’s no sign of her trying to flee again, at least for now. I sense the staff’s relief. They must fear another confrontation if she repeats her attempt. Instead, it appears she’s settling into the daily routines with a kind of cautious acceptance.

I keep my distance for most of the morning, dealing with routine matters: checking on Rahlazen’s status. He has recovered from my venom, though he’s still locked within the estate pending a final decision. I suspect he’s eager to slither back to the council, but I won’t release him yet. That conflict lurks on the horizon, but for the moment I choose not to engage.

Midday finds me in the central courtyard, overseeing a small group of guards who practice drills with wooden staves. The air is hot, the sun beating down through a break in the overhead canopy. My scales glimmer with perspiration as I correct a guard’s stance, demonstrating how to pivot in defense. My tail rests coiled behind me for balance.

From across the courtyard, I spot Mira carrying a basket of linens to a line strung between two columns. The midday light reveals her figure more clearly: slender limbs, hair pinned neatly with the jade comb. She doesn’t glance my way, but I notice her movements are calm, no trace of panic in her posture. The image draws me in, luring my focus away from the guards.

One of the soldiers notices my distraction and nearly fumbles a strike. I snap back to attention, brow furrowing. “Concentrate!” I hiss, stepping forward to position the soldier’sarms correctly. A faint scowl crosses my face. I shouldn’t allow her presence to affect me so strongly. Yet my pulse remains elevated.

By the time we conclude the drill, Mira has finished hanging the linens. She heads inside with the empty basket, shadow flickering across the courtyard flagstones. A whisper of longing stirs at the thought of speaking to her again. I can’t recall the last time a single presence occupied my mind so completely. It irritates me, this sense of being lured by what should be inconsequential.

I dismiss the guards and linger alone. The courtyard fountain splashes in the silence, carrying the scent of water and damp stone. Another memory arises: that day by the fountain, when I found her creeping near the archway. We exchanged few words, but the tension was palpable. I shake off the recollection.

Eventually, I move indoors, prowling through shadowed halls until I reach one of the manor’s smaller balconies. The vantage point overlooks the jungle canopy, where red-barked trees and serpentine vines sprawl in an unbroken expanse. If I peer over the balustrade, I can see the winding path that leads toward the capital, though it remains distant. Exile has become my fortress and my burden. This is the domain I control, and I will not see it undermined—by the council, by rival nobles, or by my own conflicted feelings.

A soft shuffle of footsteps alerts me to Mira’s presence. She steps onto the balcony, half-hidden by a column. Surprise flickers in her features. Maybe she didn’t expect anyone here. For an instant, it seems she might retreat, but she steels herself and remains, clasping her hands in front of her.

I arch a brow. “Exploring the manor further?” I ask, injecting calm into my voice.

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