Page 11 of Craving Their Venom
“The Prince plays with things that do not belong to him,” I say, my voice rumbling. I stop before her, close enough to feelthe warmth radiating from her body. “You were promised to my men.”
“I belong to no one,” she replies, her chin lifting.
“You belong to the one strong enough to hold you,” I counter, my gaze dropping to the cut on her arm. It is a small wound, insignificant. Yet the sight of her broken skin sends a fresh wave of fury through me. Fury at the assassin who caused this chaos. Fury at Varos for allowing her to be in harm’s way. Fury at the world for being a place where a creature so soft can be so easily damaged.
My hand moves of its own accord. I do not touch her. I reach past her, my fingers closing around the discarded piece of silk. I dip it into the basin of water. My movements feel clumsy, too large for such a delicate task. I turn back to her, holding out the damp cloth.
She stares at my hand, at the crimson scales and black claws, at the weapon of a hand that has ended countless lives. She hesitates, her breath catching in her throat.
“Your wound,” I grunt, my voice rough. It is not a request.
Slowly, as if approaching a wild beast, she extends her arm. I take it, my grip surprisingly gentle. Her skin is warm, the bones beneath fragile. I dab at the cut, cleaning away the single, perfect bead of blood. The contact is a brand. A searing heat that travels up my arm and settles deep in my chest, stoking the protective fire to a roaring blaze.
I am so focused on this small, intimate act that I do not hear the door open.
“Zahir. Release her.”
The voice is like an ice shard down my spine. Varos.
I drop her arm as if it is a hot coal and turn to face him. He stands in the doorway, a figure of cold, regal fury. His golden scales seem to shimmer with contained power, his hand resting on the hilt of his ceremonial dagger. His eyes are chips offrozen gold, and they are fixed on my hand, which had just been touching his property.
“She is not yours to command,” I snarl.
“She is under my protection, by order of the King,” Varos replies, his voice dangerously soft. He steps in the room, his movements fluid and precise. “A duty you seem intent on disrupting. You will leave my chambers. Now.”
“I will leave when I have what I came for,” I say, planting my feet. I am a mountain. I will not be moved.
“And what is that?” Varos asks, a faint, mocking smile touching his lips. “A toy for your men? Or a pet for yourself? Your appetites are so predictable, General.”
The insult is a spark to dry tinder. The rage I have been struggling to contain explodes. With a roar, I launch myself at him.
He is ready for it. He does not meet my charge with brute force. He is too clever for that. He sidesteps, his dagger flashing out in a silver arc aimed at my ribs. I twist, the blade slicing through my leather tunic but only grazing my scales. I pivot, my fist crashing into the side of his head with a satisfying crunch.
He staggers back, shaking his head to clear it. A thin trickle of blue blood runs from the corner of his mouth. His eyes are no longer cold. They are blazing with a furious, hateful light. We have been rivals our entire lives. He, the heir, with his politics and his strategies. I, the warrior, with my strength and my honor. We are two sides of the naga soul, and we despise each other.
He comes at me again, his movements a blur of deadly precision. He is a duelist, his attacks aimed at my weak points, at the gaps in my armor. I am a berserker. I meet his precision with overwhelming, brutal force. I slam him against the wall, the stone groaning under the impact. He brings his knee up sharply into my gut, and the air rushes from my lungs.
We are a whirlwind of violence, a storm of claws and fangs and fury unleashed in the pristine silence of his chambers. The obsidian table is overturned, scrolls scattering across the floor. A crystal vase shatters against a wall. We are destroying his perfect, ordered world, and I revel in it.
I see her, a flash of grey silk in the corner of my eye. Amara. She is pressed against the far wall, her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide with terror. She is watching this display of primal, naga brutality, and the sight of her fear is like a splash of cold water.
The distraction is all Varos needs. He drives his shoulder into my chest, sending me stumbling back. He follows up with a kick that sweeps my legs out from under me. I hit the floor with a crash that shakes the room.
Before I can recover, he is on top of me, the tip of his dagger pressed against my throat. His knee is on my chest, pinning me down. He is breathing heavily, his face reflecting triumphant fury.
“You are a beast, Zahir,” he hisses, his face inches from mine. “A mindless animal. And you will learn your place.”
I bare my fangs, a low growl rumbling in my chest. “And you are a coward, hiding behind titles and decrees.”
The dagger presses deeper. I can feel its cold, sharp point against my scales. He could end me. Here. Now. And the court would call it justice.
But he will not. He is too controlled, too political. Killing me would create a martyr. It would be… messy.
“Sooner or in a while, I will take her,” I growl, the words a solemn vow. “She is mine. The gods themselves have willed it.”
His eyes flicker with something I cannot read. Confusion? Doubt?
“The only thing you will take,” he says in a cold whisper, “is your leave.”
