Page 5 of Craving His Venom

As I walk, I note the hush that cloaks my home. Occasionally, the hum of insects or the squawk of a jungle bird breaks the stillness. No laughter, no idle conversation. It’s how I’ve lived for years, free of prying eyes. Once, this solitude was a blessing. Now, I suspect a restlessness stirs in me, something Mira’s presence has amplified.

I slip past a large fountain adorned with serpentine figures. Water trickles through their stone mouths, forming a shallow pool that reflects the overhead canopy. My reflection ripples onthe surface, revealing my tall frame. The lines of my face appear leaner than they used to be, my expression guarded. Exile has a way of carving out vulnerabilities, leaving behind only what ensures survival.

A sudden memory stings: a scene from the day I turned on the council’s command. I refused to execute a human child who had ventured too close to the High Nest’s sacred archives. That act led to an uproar, culminating in a near-fatal betrayal by my betrothed. The scars on my ribs serve as a permanent reminder.

I close my eyes for a moment, letting the memory pass like a thorny vine gliding over my skin. Then I continue along the courtyard’s path, eventually circling back into the manor through a different doorway. The corridor here leads to a set of private quarters and a smaller library. I often find respite among the old scrolls, where documented history and half-forgotten knowledge hold more honesty than most naga I once knew.

Stepping into the library, I spot Crick leaning against a shelf. His mismatched scales and rebellious grin mark him as a half-blood. He straightens and inclines his head in a greeting.

“My lord,” he says, voice laced with that familiar edge. “I’ve been checking the perimeter. Nothing unusual.”

I give a terse nod. “Good.”

His gaze flicks to me, then away. “You seem on edge,” he remarks. “Is something vexing you?”

“Merely the usual tasks,” I reply, keeping my tone dismissive. I have no intention of sharing the fact that my new maid occupies my thoughts too often.

Crick smirks, crossing his arms over his scaled chest. “If you say so, my lord. I’ll be in the barracks if you need me.”

He brushes past, footsteps echoing as he departs. Despite his attitude, he’s loyal enough and competent in guarding my land. Still, his perceptiveness grates on me. I don’t want anyspeculation about how a human servant might be distracting me.

Once alone, I scan the shelves. Scrolls detailing ancient naga rites line one section, while another holds treatises on venom research. I run my claw over a tome about the old bonding rituals, back when humans were occasionally taken as mates. The text references archaic ceremonies, now considered taboo by many. I suppress an internal sneer. The hypocrisy of the council never ceases to amaze me. They condemn any naga who expresses more than cold disdain for humans. Yet in private, some keep concubines or amuse themselves with so-called pets.

I withdraw the tome, flipping a few pages. Illustrations show serpentine males coiling around human brides, performing rites under sacred trees. The text describes a spiritual exchange of venom, the forging of a connection that transcends physical bonds. My chest tightens. I close the book abruptly, pushing it back onto the shelf. Such things have no place here, not in my life.

Leaving the library, I return to the corridor that borders the sitting room. Mira is gone now, presumably scrubbing away flour near the kitchens. I find myself irritated by the swirl of tension inside my head. Deciding to resolve something more concrete, I head toward the training courtyard behind the manor, where a smaller yard is used for combat practice.

Sunlight strikes my face as I emerge outdoors again. This courtyard is simpler—just a flat space lined with gravel. Weapons hang from a rack along one wall: spears, swords, and a few well-crafted bows. I shrug off my robe, revealing a sleeveless tunic that leaves my scaled arms bare. With a spear in hand, I move to the center of the yard.

My routine begins. Feet planted, tail coiled behind me for balance, I thrust the spear forward, pivot, and pull back. Each movement is rehearsed from years of drills. My musclesremember the sequences even if my mind wanders. I envision an orc or some shadowy foe, and I spin, bringing the spear around in a precise arc. Gravel crunches under my boots.

As I practice, sweat clings to my skin. The tension in my chest recedes, replaced by the clean focus of physical exertion. I lunge, driving the spear toward an imaginary target. It slices the air with a sharp whoosh. Then I pivot, tail snapping around to brace myself. Once upon a time, training was how I escaped the labyrinth of thoughts.

Eventually, my breathing grows ragged. I lower the spear and stand upright, letting the humid air wash over me. Closing my eyes, I chase away the swirl of anxiety that’s been haunting me. It’s foolish to let a quiet human get under my scales. She’s just another servant.

I take a moment to center myself, then slide the spear back into the rack. My torso glistens with perspiration, and the black scales on my arms catch the sun’s reflection. I reclaim my robe, shrugging it on. As I do, I hear footsteps at the courtyard’s edge.

Mira stands there, clutching a small tray with a pitcher of water. She’s paused, as if hesitant to approach. I narrow my gaze. Did Sahrine send her, or did she come on her own?

She steps forward, crossing the gravel. “My lord, Sahrine mentioned you might want refreshment.”

Her voice remains soft, but I notice she meets my eyes for a fraction of a second before lowering her gaze. Her cheeks hold the slightest flush, perhaps from the heat or from seeing me in this state of partial disarray.

I nod, holding out a hand. “Set it down.”

She places the tray on a low stone bench. The pitcher is ceramic, along with a single cup. I pour water for myself and drink deeply. The liquid soothes my throat, chilled just enough to be pleasant. Mira takes a step back, waiting. Her posture is cautious, yet I sense the flicker of curiosity in her expression.

I lift the cup again. “Your name.”

Her eyes widen slightly, as though she didn’t expect me to ask. “It’s Mira,” she answers, barely above a whisper.

“Mira,” I echo. Something about speaking her name aloud tastes strange, like a note of music out of place. “You’ve carried yourself well so far. Continue to do so, and you will find no trouble here.”

She bows her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, my lord.”

I drain the rest of the water, then set the cup down. My gaze drifts to her face, searching for any sign of deceit or hidden motives. Humans can be skilled at deception when desperation calls. Yet I find no trace of cunning here, only a guarded spark that suggests she is ready for any cruelty.

I exhale, turning away to signal she’s dismissed. She must read my body language because she steps back, inclining her head once more before retreating from the courtyard. The sense of her presence lingers, leaving a subtle heat in the air even after she’s gone.

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