Page 23 of Craving His Venom

Stepping inside, I pass an old mirror on the hallway wall. My reflection stares back—amber eyes, proud bearing, black scales glinting faintly. For years, I’ve been alone in this fortress of silence, content to rule from a place of calculated distance. Now, an uninvited tension crackles in my life, wearing down my solitude like a steady drip of water on stone.

Though I refuse to name it anything else, a small part of me suspects it might be the stirrings of something dangerously close to longing. If I allow it to flourish unchecked, there is no telling what chaos it might invite. The council’s ire, the staff’s gossip, my own sense of purpose shaken to the core.

I press a claw to my palm, letting the slight pain ground me. She’s a servant. No matter the moments we share or the fragile warmth that flickers in her expression whenever our eyes meet, I must maintain control—over her, over my domain, and most of all, over myself.

For now, granting her limited freedom is enough. She’s within my walls, under my watch. If that subtle need to see her again arises, I can find her easily, feigning a routine inspection or trivial inquiry. But if these undercurrents grow stronger, I’ll have to remind myself that I’m the master here, not a fool enthralled by his own servant.

I pivot and head deeper into the corridor, robe swishing around my legs, tail gliding behind me. The hush in the manor thickens as the sun climbs higher, washing the stone floors with warm light. I have far more urgent concerns demanding my attention—like ensuring Rahlazen’s silence, thwarting the council’s potential interference, and maintaining the discipline that once defined me.

Yet as I make my way through the next archway, I catch myself lingering on how the sunlight might hit the jade comb inher hair at certain angles, how her eyes might shift from caution to curiosity when she notices me. A grimace twists my lips at the realization that she occupies too much of my mind. I force my focus onto more pressing matters, ignoring the swirl of disquiet in my chest.

Even so, the memory of her standing on that balcony remains lodged in my thoughts well into the afternoon, refusing to dissolve. And a new, unspoken truth settles in my bones: no matter how much I deny it, the equilibrium I once guarded so fiercely has begun to slip, and I am no longer certain I want to reclaim it.

7

MIRA

Iwake to the low hum of conversation drifting through the manor’s corridors. It’s early, judging by the pale light that filters through my small window. My heart thumps a little faster than usual—no matter how many mornings pass in this strange household, I never fully relax. Too many rules and eyes are on me, not to mention the unpredictable presence of Vahziryn.

Rising from the narrow bed, I stretch my limbs. My ankle aches faintly, but I can walk without limping now. The memory of that night I tried to flee the estate feels distant yet vivid enough to make my pulse race whenever I recall how he carried me back in his arms. His hold was firm, neither cruel nor gentle, and the contrast still leaves me breathless when I dwell on it too long.

I dress in a simple gray tunic and trousers, tying my short hair back with the jade-and-gold comb he gifted me. I’m still uncertain why he chose to give me something so fine. The comb glints whenever light hits its filigree, drawing more attention than I usually want, but Sahrine insisted I keep it visible as a sign of respect to him. In naga culture, a gift from the master is apparently significant. A few weeks ago, I would have assumedsuch a gesture came with a heavy cost. Perhaps it still does. I remind myself to stay guarded.

Stepping into the corridor, I nod to a passing human servant who quickly averts her gaze. Everyone here understands that I’m in an odd position. I’m neither fully favored nor scorned, yet the staff watches me with wary curiosity—maybe trying to glean if Vahziryn’s attention on me will cause trouble for them too.

My first task this morning is to tend the greenhouse plants. Sahrine gave me a small ledger listing which specimens need pruning or watering. After I gather my tools from the supply room, I walk briskly down a winding corridor until I reach the door that leads to the greenhouse’s humid interior. The warmth envelops me the moment I step inside, thick with the scent of loamy soil and living green things.

Columns of sunlight pierce through the glass ceiling, illuminating rows of exotic vines and blossoms. Several large potted shrubs line a central path. I slip off my shoes to better grip the damp stone, then begin checking each plant for signs of rot or pests. The routine is almost comforting, letting me lose myself in the rustle of leaves and the soft trickle of water from a small fountain in the corner.

I’m halfway through trimming an overgrown vine when a voice startles me. “You do look at home among the weeds, don’t you?” The words carry a teasing edge, and I spin to see Crick leaning against a large pot.

He’s a half-blood naga guard with mismatched scales across his forearms and a scar that bisects his chin. Unlike Vahziryn, who carries an air of silent authority, Crick is more casual, prone to snide remarks that hint at an underlying distrust of nobility—naga or otherwise. I brush stray leaves from my tunic, trying to steady my heartbeat. “Good morning,” I say, tone wary. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

He shrugs with a wry smile. “I tread lightly. Part of my job.” Pushing off the pot, he circles one of the plants with measured steps. “Sahrine sent me to check on a few seedlings, but I see you’re handling them. Looks like you know what you’re doing.”

“I’ve learned.” I snip a dead leaf from the vine. “Besides, I don’t mind the quiet here.”

His gaze flicks to the comb in my hair. “And I see you still flaunt that little token.”

Heat warms my cheeks. “I’m not flaunting it. He gave it to me. I don’t want to seem ungrateful.”

Crick’s eyes narrow, and his mismatched scales shift in the greenhouse light. “You know how naga lords are,” he says quietly. “They rarely give something for free. There’s always a hidden string attached.”

I exhale, setting down my pruning shears. “If you’re trying to warn me of something, be direct.”

His mouth forms a humorless smile. “All right. Naga of his status only offer gifts when they see value in the recipient—maybe something they want to own or control. That comb isn’t a trifle. It’s practically a brand marking you as special to him.”

My stomach knots. Deep down, I suspected as much, but hearing it spoken so plainly unsettles me. “He told me it was just a courtesy,” I murmur.

Crick’s snort conveys skepticism. “Sure it was.” Leaning in, he drops his voice. “You might think you’ve gained freedom because he let you roam the halls, but watch how his tail lingers around you. Notice how often he appears when you least expect it. A naga lord like Vahziryn is methodical—he’s not going to rush. But don’t doubt he’s observing every move you make.”

I swallow, recalling the times Vahziryn seemed to materialize in corridors or by the balcony, the weight of his stare sinking into my skin. “I won’t deny he watches me,” I whisper. “But that doesn’t mean?—”

Crick shakes his head. “Oh, it absolutely means something. Maybe he’s deciding if you can be trusted, or maybe he’s inching toward claiming you in a more intimate sense. Either way, I don’t want to see you blindsided.”

A shiver races down my spine, half trepidation, half something else. Claiming me? The idea sends heat racing through my face and a jolt of alarm into my chest. “I appreciate the warning,” I say quietly, turning away to hide my unease. “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

He grunts, arms folded. “Good. You’re not stupid. Stay that way.” Then, clearing his throat, he nods at the watering can. “Let’s finish quickly. I’ve no desire to linger in this steam bath.”

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