Page 4 of Craving His Venom

My study occupies a large chamber flanked by two windows that overlook the jungle beyond. The glass is warped in places, evidence of older craftsmanship. Through the panes, I glimpse thick vines and crimson bark, a hallmark of this region’s vegetation. Kaynvu’s forests are lush and untamed. Predator calls echo at dawn and dusk. The isolation suits me, far removed from the ceaseless intrigues of the naga royal court.

I settle behind a heavy wooden desk. On its surface lie parchments detailing watch reports, supply inventories, and other mundane necessities. Sahrine’s neat handwriting notes that we received fresh produce from a nearby orchard. Another line item shows the arrival of certain medicinal herbs used to refine my venom. My mind wanders, drifting back to the swirl of quiet that follows Mira wherever she goes.

I pick up a quill and scratch my signature on one of the parchments, approving a shipment of preserved meats for winter. My tail flexes around the chair legs, a sign of agitation. I push the feeling aside and focus on the next item: an update about orc raids. My scouts warn of small bands creeping closer to naga territory. Typically, we can repel them with minimal effort, but if their numbers grow, it may require my personal attention.

After reviewing the details, I grab the next report, only to discover my gaze flicking toward the door. Am I waiting to sense her presence again? Frustration builds in my chest. My claws click lightly against the edge of the parchment.

I recall a single memory from my time at the High Nest, back when I was engaged to Lady Velna. She once told me that compassion for humans signaled a fundamental flaw in my character. I believed her for a while, letting guilt fester each time I spared a human slave from harsh punishment. Her betrayal—conspiring with assassins to claim my inheritance—showed me how twisted that line of thinking was. That fias—no, that calamity still throbs like an old wound. No, I won’t allow the memory of her cruelty to control me.

I refocus on the lines of text. Eventually, I force myself to immerse in the strategic updates, scribbling notes for my guard, Crick. He’s a half-blood, cunning and loyal enough, though he doesn’t hide his scorn for the naga elite. That might be one reason I tolerate him—he despises hypocrisy as much as I do.

Time drips by until a knock sounds at the door. It’s not timid, yet it lacks aggression. “Enter,” I say, voice curt.

Sahrine steps inside, her sightless eyes directed toward me. She wears a deep green robe that conceals her serpentine limbs. A single scale glimmers near her collarbone, aged and pale compared to mine. She inclines her head. “My lord, the new maid is settling well. She’s thorough in her cleaning, quiet, and hasn’t disrupted the household.”

I set down my quill. “Good. That’s exactly what was promised.”

Sahrine pauses, hands folded. “Indeed. Though the staff remarks that she seems...observant.”

I arch a brow. “Elaborate.”

“She misses nothing. She notices small details, reorganizes tasks for efficiency without being told. She remains meek in words, but I sense a keen mind behind her silence.”

A faint current of irritation stirs. I do not need a clever servant. Obedience and competence suffice. And still, some quiet part of me wonders why that offends me. “Does she meddle?” I ask, carefully controlled.

“Not in any problematic way, my lord. She simply adapts quickly. The others find her a little unsettling, because she speaks so rarely yet accomplishes so much.”

I tap a claw against the desk. That’s precisely what I wanted from the slavers—a servant who would not trouble me. Curiosity only becomes an issue if it leads to disobedience or prying. “Keep watch, and ensure she understands her limits.”

Sahrine inclines her head again. “As you wish.”

She steps back, closes the door, and leaves me alone with my thoughts. For a while, I wrestle with the tension in my shoulders. Then I push away from the desk and decide to inspect the estate personally. My tail swishes behind me as I stride into the hallway, passing a series of wall sconces that remain unlit duringthe day. I head toward the eastern wing, following the same route Mira took earlier.

Muted footsteps reach me before I see anyone. I slow my pace and peer around a wide archway into a smaller sitting room. This chamber has a simple fireplace along one wall, a few straight-backed chairs, and a large painting of the capital city, Kario, pinned above the hearth.

Mira kneels near the baseboards, dusting meticulously. From my vantage point, I observe her profile: the gentle slope of her cheek, the focused set of her mouth. Her arms are slender, yet I notice a subtle firmness in her movements that betrays years of labor. She glances up, perhaps sensing me. The moment her eyes meet mine, she drops her gaze and shifts her weight, as if fighting the urge to bow.

Instead of stepping into the room, I remain in the archway. “You work quickly,” I remark.

“I only wish to do what’s required.” Her answer is soft, delivered without hesitation.

Something about her voice stirs me. I move closer, letting my tail curl around one of the chair legs. “Sahrine says you reorganize tasks. You take initiative.”

She sets her rag aside. “I’m sorry, my lord, if that offends. I was trying to lighten the burden on the others.” There’s a cautious note in her tone, a desire not to provoke.

I study her posture. “You haven’t crossed any lines yet. But be aware that stepping too boldly beyond your station may cause friction.”

She lifts her chin a fraction, though still avoiding my eyes. “I understand.”

My scrutiny roams across her face, lingering on the faint burn scar visible on the side of her thigh when she shifts. The cloth of her dress rides up an inch, revealing uneven flesh, presumably from an older wound. She notices my attention andpulls her skirt down quickly. I catch a flicker of embarrassment in her features, then it vanishes behind a composed mask.

The silence grows thick. I sense the flutter of something in my chest, an inconvenient awareness of how alone we stand in this small room, with no one else present. I breathe more slowly, reining in whatever impulses churn beneath my exterior. I’m the master here, not a suitor, and certainly not a caretaker for her wounds.

I release the chair from my tail’s grasp and step aside. “If you finish early, see to the corridor near the kitchens. The scullery maids have left footprints of flour again.”

“Yes, my lord.” She collects her things, and I see the faint tremor in her fingers. Whether it’s fear or tension, I’m not certain.

I leave without another word, determined to keep my distance. Yet my path leads to the courtyard at the center of the estate, where I often pace among the vines and carved pillars to clear my head. Stepping outside, I inhale the damp air. The courtyard is open to the sky, though partially shaded by broad-leafed plants twisting around stone arches. A cluster of red ferns borders the path, their leaves shaped like elongated fingers. Beyond them, a statue of Feher, the naga god of land and water, stands guard. His carved serpent tail wraps around a sphere, symbolizing the planet’s bounty.

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