Page 19 of Craving His Venom

Why give this to her? The question circles my thoughts. Because a comb is simpler than words, perhaps. Because I’m weary of her avoiding my gaze, convinced I’m a monster waiting to strike. If a small kindness can lessen her fear, it may prevent further attempts at escape. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

Decision made, I slip the comb into my robe pocket. Warmth spreads through my chest, and I brush it aside as a fleeting indulgence.

Stepping from the study, I stride through corridors lined with stone arches. Braziers glow here and there, illuminating the serpent-carved pillars and throwing shadows across the floors. A few staff members step aside, bowing their heads, and I nod in return. Even from them, I sense the hush that has settled on the estate. My domain rarely bustles like the royal courts anyway, but these days, caution lingers in every corner.

I find Mira in a side chamber near the greenhouse. She’s rearranging a stack of supplies—gardening tools, pots of soil, and crates of seeds. Her figure is slight, though she carries herself with a quiet grace. A simple gray tunic and trousers replace the dress she wore before, allowing for freer movement. I suppose Sahrine arranged a more practical outfit now that Mira’s assigned to tasks beyond scrubbing floors.

She notices me instantly, pausing in her work. I watch her stiffen, uncertain whether to kneel or stand. Eventually, she dips her head, voice soft. “My lord.”

I fold my arms over my chest, reminding myself to keep my tone measured. “I hear your ankle no longer pains you.”

She nods, avoiding my eyes. “It’s healed enough to walk without trouble.”

A part of me wants her to look directly at me, to gauge her true expression. Instead, I gesture at the crates. “Do you enjoy tending these supplies?”

The question seems to catch her off guard. She glances at the stacked pots, then shrugs. “I don’t mind. It’s orderly work.”

I step closer, noticing the faint tension in her posture as I approach. “Sahrine mentioned you might manage tasks around the estate more freely. You won’t be restricted to your quarters when you aren’t working. But if you abuse that freedom...”

Her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t shrink back. “You’ll punish me,” she finishes quietly.

My tail gives a subtle twitch. I hate that she phrases it so bluntly, yet it’s not untrue. “I’ll keep you from harming yourself,” I correct, voice low.

She lifts her gaze for an instant, and our eyes meet. The swirl of defiance and gratitude in her expression stirs something I can’t name. Then she lowers her gaze again, setting a small trowel aside.

I clear my throat. “I have something for you.” My pulse thumps, though I present the comb with a neutral expression. “Take it.”

A flicker of surprise crosses her face when she sees the jade shimmer. She hesitates, obviously unsure if accepting is wise. Slowly, she extends her hand, brushing her fingertips along the comb’s polished curve. I note the faint tremor in her wrist—she’s more nervous than she wants to reveal.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, voice hushed. “Why...?”

I keep my tone casual. “You’re too often disheveled, especially when working. Consider it a courtesy, so you can keep your hair neat.”

She runs a thumb over the gold filigree, eyes lingering on the serpent motifs etched into the jade. “This is too fine,” she says softly. “Are you certain?—?”

“Yes.” The single word emerges firmly, cutting off protest. I won’t let her question it. “Use it.”

She nods, swallowing hard. “Thank you, my lord.” She almost sounds sincere, though confusion still shadows her features.

A beat passes in which neither of us speaks. My tail curls slightly behind me, betraying my own unease. Why does a simple gesture feel so charged? Finally, I step back, keeping my posture stiff. “There is no need to repay me. Just continue your service without further attempts to throw yourself into danger.”

Her shoulders straighten at that, and she meets my gaze once more, a faint spark in her eyes. “I’m not trying to be reckless,” she whispers, “but living here...is complicated.”

I let out a quiet exhale, forcing my expression to remain unreadable. “I know,” I say, startling myself with the honest admission. Then I add more brusquely, “Return to your tasks when you’re done admiring the gift. I have business to attend to.”

Without waiting for a reply, I pivot sharply and leave, though my pulse thrums. The image of her cradling the comb in her hands stays with me, refusing to slip away.

Later, I retreat to the training courtyard behind the manor. A hush envelops the open space, where the moonlight filters down between sections of the roof. I pick up a spear from the weapons rack, letting its weight settle in my hand. My breath flows in a steady rhythm as I launch into a series of practiced forms—strikes, feints, parries. Sweat gathers along my scaled arms, the physical exertion soothing the turbulence inside my head.

Tonight, however, I can’t fully banish the memory of her wide eyes or the curve of her lips as she accepted the comb. The subtle vulnerability she displayed pricks at me, reminding me how easily I could crush her if I chose. The thought sparks an odd surge of protectiveness. With each thrust of the spear, I try to dispel these tangled feelings, but they remain, coiling tighter.

My tail flicks around, braced to snap at whoever dares interrupt—until I spot the telltale shimmer of Crick’s half-blood scales in the torchlight. He stays a careful distance, arms crossed. His voice carries a hint of wry humor. “You’re practicing alone again, I see.”

I lower the spear, breathing heavily. “I prefer solitude.”

He steps onto the gravel. The uneven pattern of his scales on his arms glints as he nears. “You used to train with your guards. Now they say you don’t invite them anymore.”

I grunt, rubbing sweat from my brow. “My guards are busy. Besides, I need no sparring partner for these forms.”

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