Page 18 of Craving His Venom

“You’re not leaving this room tonight,” he says, voice guarded. “Your ankle needs rest. Tomorrow, Sahrine will bring you a salve.”

I tighten my fists in the fabric of my dress. “And then what? Am I supposed to act like nothing happened?”

He lowers his eyes, a storm brewing in his expression. “No. But you won’t repeat this foolishness. This domain may be far from the capital, but it’s safer than the wild.”

Bitterness flares inside me. “Safer? You pinned a noble to the floor with your fangs.”

His jaw clenches. “He deserved it.”

The tension between us crackles. I recall the sight of venom on his lips, the savage triumph in his eyes. Something in me stirs uncomfortably—half revulsion, half gratitude. “Am I next?” I whisper, not meaning the words to sound so raw.

A flash of hurt flickers across his features, so brief I almost miss it. Then his voice drops to a near growl. “No. You will never be next.”

We stare at each other in the lamplight. My heart beats a frantic rhythm. I don’t know how to respond, so I remain silent, grappling with the knot of fear and odd yearning that’s formed in my chest. There’s a moment when he shifts closer, as though about to touch my face. Then he stops, wrestling with his own hesitation.

“Rest,” he says at last, stepping back. His tail slithers behind him, tension coursing through every movement. “Do not try to leave again. I won’t chase you twice.”

The declaration hovers in the air, a warning laced with something else. He departs, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. The hush that follows feels crushing.

I sag against the bedframe, breathing hard, mind swirling with conflicting urges. Part of me longs to never see him again, terrified of the violence he can unleash. Yet another part of me—one I can barely acknowledge—remembers the way he carried me, how he insisted I lean on him, how his eyes burned with something other than cruelty.

Sleep doesn’t come easily. I curl under the thin blanket, my throbbing ankle propped on a spare pillow, and stare at the flickering lamp until exhaustion overwhelms my fear. My final thoughts linger on the strange sense of security I felt, if only for a second, when his coils encircled me in the jungle.

I’m caught in a web, uncertain whether he’s the spider or the only thing standing between me and a far more dangerous fate. Either way, I have no choice but to stay. The question is: will I ever truly want to?

6

VAHZIRYN

Istand by the wide window of my study, watching moonlight transform the courtyard into patches of silver and black. The estate feels calmer now, almost subdued, after the upheaval of recent days: my outburst with Rahlazen, the ensuing lockdown, Mira’s attempted escape. In truth, it’s been some time since the attack, but the memory remains fresh in everyone’s mind. The guards keep their distance unless summoned, and the staff speaks in hushed tones, tiptoeing around me as if any stray noise could spark another display of venom.

Though I pride myself on discipline, I can’t deny the storm that brews under my skin. I want to believe I have it under control, yet certain details set me on edge: an offhand remark from one of my sentries, a faint sense that the council might soon send scouts to question me, or simply the recurring flash of Mira’s startled gaze the night I coerced her into returning to my domain. She is too potent a presence, and I need to find a balance between ignoring her and indulging the strange pull I feel.

I drag my claws lightly across the windowsill. The wood is smooth from years of polishing, with subtle serpent motifscarved into it. My reflection stares back in the window’s glass—a tall figure with black scales across forearms and tail, hair the color of midnight, eyes reflecting gold. The posture is rigid, yet tension circles my shoulders. I pull in a calming breath, forcing my tail to loosen from its coiled stance behind me.

A sharp rap breaks the silence. “Enter,” I say, voice steady.

Sahrine glides in, silent as ever. Her pale eyes fix on my outline with uncanny precision, though she sees by heat rather than sight. She bows her head in the barest gesture of respect. “My lord, I thought you’d wish to know that Mira’s ankle has healed enough for her to move about more freely.”

I glance away from the window, trying to pretend my pulse doesn’t quicken at the mention of her name. “I see.”

Sahrine tilts her head, probably sensing the change in my body heat. “She’s been performing her chores without complaint. I believe she’s ready for a slightly expanded role within the household, if you wish it.”

I tap the windowsill with a single claw, deliberating. The notion of letting Mira roam more than usual both intrigues and unsettles me. But I recall the terror that darkened her gaze as she tried to flee, and the guilt that still tugs at me for binding her so forcefully in the jungle. Perhaps providing her some measure of freedom will remind her that my protection is not solely a cage.

“Allow it,” I decide. “She may handle tasks throughout the manor, not just her usual areas. But ensure the guards remain watchful.”

Sahrine inclines her head. “As you say.” She hesitates a moment, then adds softly, “This could be a chance to ease her fears. Tension lingers in her, though she hides it well.”

I nod once. “Noted.”

She withdraws, leaving me alone with my reflection again. My mind churns. Extending privileges is an unfamiliar practice for me, especially regarding a human servant. But something inmy chest stirs at the idea of seeing her move more freely through the halls. I tell myself it’s merely curiosity—I want to observe how she behaves when she isn’t confined to menial corners.

Another memory flickers: her face flushed with defiance, arms locked around my neck as I carried her out of the jungle. I rub my forehead, forcing that image away. It’s best to handle this with detachment. She is my servant, nothing more.

Still, the restlessness refuses to subside. I pace the study, tail swishing behind me. My gaze strays to a small chest on a side table. Inside, I keep a handful of personal items—tokens from my life before exile. A carved amulet from my father, a few battered scrolls...and a jade-and-gold comb I acquired in a distant city. I intended it as a gift for someone else long ago, but that never came to pass. My betrothed at the time was more interested in jewels that screamed power. The comb remained unused, gathering dust, yet I kept it for reasons I can’t quite articulate.

I open the chest, fingers sliding over the comb’s polished surface. The jade is cool to the touch, intricately carved with serpent designs that shimmer in gold filigree. An idea forms, and a wave of uncertainty follows. In naga culture, giving away something that carries personal significance can suggest a claim or an intimate bond. Humans might not read such meaning into it, but I can’t deny the weight of the gesture.

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