Page 20 of Craving Their Venom
Varos commands my presence at a midday gathering in one of the less formal palace halls. It has arching windows that look out onto the sterile gardens, the air thick with the smell of wine and roasted meat. The nobles are here in force, a glittering sea of scales and silk, their voices a low, sibilant hum. I am, as always, the only human. The Prince’s pet, on display.
I sit on a cushion at his side, my back straight, my hands clasped in my lap. I am a statue. An ornament. I sip my water and say nothing. But I am not just an object. I am a watcher. I see Lady Xaliya across the room, a vision in bruised purple, her laughter a beautiful, sharp sound. I see the way her eyes flicker toward me, cold and calculating.
And I see Zahir.
He stands near a far pillar, a monolith of crimson and black. He is not mingling. He is observing, his golden eyes a burning fire that seems to suck all the light and warmth from my corner of the room. His gaze is a physical weight, a constant, suffocating pressure on my skin. He is not looking at Varos. He is looking at me. And in his eyes, I see a raw, possessive hunger. It is the look of a wolf watching a rival parade his stolen kill.
A naga servant approaches me, bowing low. He carries a single, elegant crystal goblet on a silver tray. The liquid inside is a beautiful, shimmering gold, with a single, perfect white flower floating on its surface.
“A gift, my lady,” the servant hisses softly. “From an admirer who wishes to honor the Prince’s exquisite taste.”
My blood runs cold. Kia’s warning echoes in my ears.Never accept a gift.
I look at the goblet. It is beautiful. A sign of favor. To refuse it would be an insult, not just to the unknown admirer, but to the Prince himself. It would be a disruption. A scene.
“I am not thirsty,” I say, my voice sounding thin.
The servant’s eyes flicker with uncertainty. “My lady, it is a great honor…”
“She said she is not thirsty,” a voice growls, a low rumble of thunder that cuts through the hum of the court.
I look up, my heart leaping into my throat. Zahir is there. He moved without a sound, a crimson shadow that has suddenly materialized at my side. He did not charge across the room. He simply… arrived.
His hand, a massive thing of scales and claws, closes over mine where it rests on the cushion. His grip is like iron. He does not look at the servant. His burning, golden gaze is fixed on the goblet.
“There is a bitter note,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur that only I can hear. “Beneath the honey.”
He releases my hand and takes the goblet from the tray. The delicate crystal looks absurdly fragile in his massive fist. The servant flinches back, clearly terrorized. Zahir ignores him. He swirls the golden liquid, his eyes narrowed. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he lets a single drop fall from the goblet onto the leaf of a nearby potted plant, a black-leafed thing with veins of silver.
The leaf curls instantly, turning a sickly, brittle brown, as if all the life has been scorched from it. A collective gasp ripples through the nobles nearest to us. The beautiful, golden liquid is poison. A slow poison, designed not to kill, but to sicken.To discredit. To make the Prince’s new pet seem weak, fragile, unworthy of his attention.
Zahir’s head lifts, and his gaze sweeps the room. It is a slow, deliberate movement, a promise of brutal, bloody retribution. He does not need to find the sender. He is sending a message of his own. His eyes linger for a moment on the far side of the room, where Lady Xaliya stands, her face a perfect, impassive mask, before he turns his burning gaze back to me.
Without a word, he grips my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh. He hauls me to my feet and pulls me from the hall, away from the sudden, frantic whispers of the court, away from the cold, furious gaze of the Prince. He leaves the Prince to take care of the aftermath of the poisoning.
He drags me through the corridors, his pace a brutal, punishing stride that forces me into a half-run to keep up. He does not stop until he has pulled me into a secluded, shadowed alcove, far from the prying eyes of the court. He slams me back against the cold stone wall, his massive body trapping me.
“You are a fool,” he snarls, his face inches from mine. His breath is hot, smelling of rage and something else, something wild and clean like a storm. “A blind, witless child. Do you think this is a game? Do you think gifts are given freely in this nest of vipers?”
“I… I was going to refuse,” I stammer, my body trembling with a mixture of residual terror and the overwhelming, violent presence of him.
“You hesitated,” he growls, his hand coming up to grip my shoulders. He gives me a slight, sharp shake, as if to rattle the stupidity from my bones. “In this world, hesitation is death.”
His anger is a terrifying thing, a physical force that beats against me. But beneath the anger, I feel the frantic, violent tremor in his hands. He is not just angry. He is terrified. Therealization is a dizzying shock. This brutal, unkillable warrior was terrified forme.
“They want to hurt you,” he says with a guttural rasp. “To hurt the Princethroughyou. You are a target. A weakness. A soft, pale spot on his golden armor.”
He leans in closer, his forehead resting against mine. His eyes are closed, his fangs bared in a silent snarl. I can feel the heat of his body, the solid, unyielding strength of him. It is like being trapped in a rockslide, terrifying and yet, in some strange, inexplicable way, utterly safe.
“I should have let them,” he whispers, the words a confession of self-loathing. “I should have let the Prince deal with his own poisoned pets. It is not my place to protect his property.”
But he did. He did protect me.
“Why?” I whisper, the single word a breath of sound in the charged silence.
His eyes snap open, and they are blazing, two molten suns. “Because the thought of you, pale and gasping for breath, of that light in your eyes being dimmed by their poison… it is a thought I cannot tolerate.”
His hand comes up, his claws gently, almost reverently, tracing the line of my jaw. His touch is rough, calloused, but it holds a strange, desperate tenderness. “You are a sickness in my blood, little human. A madness. I see you, and all thoughts of honor and duty and battle turn to ash. There is only this… this need. To claim you. To keep you. To burn the world down to protect you.”
