Page 21 of Craving Their Venom
He is a monster. A creature of violence and rage. He speaks of me as a possession, a madness. And yet, I find myself leaning into his touch, my body craving the brutal, honest truth of his protection. In this moment, he is not a General. He is not a rival to the Prince. He is the storm that has come to shelter me from the rain.
“You will eat nothing,” he commands, his voice a low, rough growl. “You will drink nothing. Unless it comes from my hand, or the hand of the Prince himself. Do you understand me?”
I can only nod, my throat tight with a tangle of emotions I cannot name. Fear. Gratitude. And something else, something dark and thrilling and utterly terrifying.
He holds my gaze for a moment longer, a silent, possessive promise passing between us. Then he releases me and steps back, the spell broken. He is once again the General, a figure of brutal authority.
“Go back to your cage,” he says, his voice once again harsh. “And learn to see the vipers before they strike. I will come to you soon.”
He turns and stalks away, leaving me trembling in the shadowed alcove, my heart a wild, frantic drum against my ribs. I am trapped between a cold, calculating Prince who claims me as property but touches me with a worshipper’s reverence, and a brutal, savage General who calls me a madness but shields me with the ferocity of a guardian.
I am not safe. I am the eye of a hurricane. And I have a terrifying feeling that the storm has only just begun.
14
ZAHIR
The madness has a name. Amara. It is a poison that has seeped into my blood, a fever that has taken root in my soul. I stand in the brutal, honest sunlight of my private training yard, the scent of dust and steel a familiar comfort, but my mind is not here. It is in a shadowed alcove, with the feel of her trembling body pressed against mine, the memory of her scent a ghost on my skin.
I protected her. I, who have razed cities and broken armies, stood as a shield for a fragile human pet. The Prince’s pet. The thought is a jagged piece of stone in my gut. I did not do it for him. It’s not for the prophecy. I did it because the image of her, pale and broken, is a desecration I cannot permit.
Her helplessness is the problem. It is a beacon for the vipers in this court, a weakness they will exploit until she is destroyed. And the thought of her destruction is a void that opens beneath my feet. I cannot be her shadow, her constant guardian. The Prince is too proud to protect her properly, and the Mystic is lost in his scrolls and stars. If she is to survive this nest of serpents, she cannot be prey.
The decision is not a thought. It is an instinct. A primal, absolute certainty. I will not allow her to be a victim. I will forge her into something else.
I do not send for her. I go myself. The guards at the Prince’s chambers see me coming, a crimson storm of purpose, and this time, they have the good sense to step aside immediately. I do not knock. I slam the door open with enough force to make it shudder on its hinges.
She is by the window, staring out at the sterile garden, a small, lonely figure in a cage of silk and stone. She turns, her eyes widening with alarm as I fill the doorway.
“You,” she breathes.
“Me,” I growl. I stalk toward her, my patience a thin, frayed thread. “Your lesson in survival was insufficient. You hesitate. You trust. You will die. Today, that changes. I told you I will come to you, it’s time.”
I grab her arm. My grip is firm, unyielding, but I am conscious of the delicate bones beneath her soft skin. I do not want to break her. I want to temper her. Like steel.
“What are you doing?” she cries, struggling against my hold, a futile, desperate flutter.
“I am teaching you not to be a target,” I snarl, pulling her from the chamber. We move through the palace, a predator dragging his kill, though my purpose is the opposite. The nobles we pass flatten themselves against the walls, their eyes wide with fear and morbid curiosity. Let them watch. Let them see that the General has claimed an interest in the Prince’s pet. Let them wonder.
I drag her to my training grounds, a place of hard-packed earth, splintered weapon racks, and the ghosts of a thousand violent exertions. It is my church. My sanctuary. The air here is clean, honest. It smells of sweat and effort, not lies and perfume.
I shove her toward the center of the yard, onto the rough, woven mats that cover the ground. She stumbles but catches her balance, her body tense, her eyes blazing with a mixture of terror and fury.
“You will learn to fight,” I command, circling her.
“I cannot fight a naga,” she says, her voice shaking but defiant. “It’s impossible.”
“I am not teaching you to win,” I retort, stopping in front of her. “I am teaching you to live for one more second. To create a moment of hesitation. To give yourself an opening to run. In a fight you cannot win, survival is the only victory.”
I lunge at her, my movements deliberately slow, telegraphing my intent. “Block me.”
She throws her arms up in a clumsy, defensive gesture. I sweep them aside with one hand and shove her hard in the chest. She falls backward onto the mat with a softoof.
“Pathetic,” I spit, looming over her. “You are a sack of soft flesh and breakable bones. Your only weapon is your mind. Use it. Anticipate. Evade. Get up.”
She pushes herself up, her face smudged with dust, her eyes glittering with unshed tears of frustration. “Again,” I command.
We continue this brutal dance for what feels like hours. I push her. I trip her. I use my tail. I show her how to twist out of a grip, how to aim for a weak point—the eyes, the throat, the joints. She is clumsy. She is weak. But she does not give up. Each time I knock her down, she gets back up, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her body trembling with exhaustion, but her eyes never losing that core of stubborn fire.
