Page 16 of Craving Their Venom
Varos stops, turning to me. He follows my gaze and sees the General. A low hiss, almost too quiet to hear, escapes the Prince’s lips. He places a hand on the small of my back, a firm, proprietary pressure. It is not a gesture of comfort. It is a gestureof ownership. A silent, defiant message sent across the courtyard to his rival.Mine.
“Keep walking,” he murmurs, his deep voice a low command near my ear. His hand steers me forward, away from the General’s burning gaze. My skin tingles where he touches me, a confusing mixture of fear and a strange, shameful sense of safety.
We continue our walk, the silent war of wills playing out across the crimson sand. It is then that a figure detaches itself from a group of nobles and glides toward us. Lady Xaliya.
Today, she wears silks the color of a fresh bruise, her violet scales shimmering. Her smile is a beautiful, predatory thing.
“Your Highness,” she says, her voice like honey. She gives a graceful, shallow bow, but her sharp, intelligent eyes are all for me. They do not just look at me; they dissect me. “And the little savior. You are looking… radiant this morning.”
I say nothing, remembering the Prince’s command.
“The Prince’s care seems to agree with you,” she continues, her gaze sweeping over my fine tunic, my groomed hair. “One might almost think his methods of…discipline… were surprisingly gentle.”
The insinuation is a stiletto blade, slid expertly between my ribs. She sees it. She sees the contradiction. She knows this was not a simple act of dominance. She looks from me to Varos, a flicker of triumphant understanding in her eyes. She has found the crack in his armor. And it is me.
“My methods are my own concern, Lady Xaliya,” Varos says, his voice dropping to a dangerously cold register.
“Of course, Your Highness,” she purrs, her smile widening. “One would never presume to question them. It is simply… gratifying to see such a valuable asset so well-maintained. A happy pet is so much more amusing for the court, after all.”
She gives another slight bow and drifts away, leaving the scent of her poisonous perfume in her wake. I am trembling. She did not threaten me directly, but her message was clear. I am not just a pet to her. I am leverage. I am the Prince’s weakness, and she is a woman who knows how to exploit the weaknesses of powerful naga.
Varos says nothing. His hand is still on my back, his thumb now rubbing a slow, almost unconscious circle against the silk. The gesture is so at odds with the cold fury I see in his profile that my head spins. He is a fortress of contradictions, and I am trapped in the heart of it.
He leads me back to his chambers in silence. The walk feels longer this time, the weight of the court’s eyes, of Zahir’s hatred, of Xaliya’s cunning, pressing down on me.
Inside the cold, silent room, he finally releases me. I stand in the midst of the chamber, feeling stripped bare, exposed.
“You see now?” he says, his voice dropping to a low, harsh whisper. “You see what you have become?”
I look at him, at this beautiful, cruel prince who has claimed me. “I see what you have made me,” I reply, my voice shaking but clear.
He stalks toward me, his face twisted with cold fury. For a moment, I think he will strike me. Instead, he reaches out and cups my jaw, his grip firm, forcing me to look at him.
“I have made you safe,” he snarls, his golden eyes blazing. “I have put my mark on you so that the jackals will not dare to touch you. You should be grateful.”
“Is this safety?” I ask, my voice breaking. “To be the target of your enemies? To be the prize in your war with your General? This is not safety. It’s a different kind of battlefield.”
His eyes flicker, and for a heartbeat, I see a flash of something that looks like guilt. It is gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by the familiar mask of cold control.
“Then you will learn to fight,” he says, growling. He releases me abruptly and turns away. “Or you will learn to die. It makes no difference to me.”
But I heard it. In the brief, unguarded moment, I heard the lie in his voice. Itdoesmake a difference to him. I know it with a terrifying certainty.
He has branded me as his property to quell the whispers of the court. But his actions, the strange tenderness that wars with his cruelty, have only made the whispers louder. He has not proven that I am an object. He has proven that I am his most cherished, most dangerous possession. And in this world of predators, there is nothing more tempting than taking what a Prince holds dear.
11
ZAHIR
The sight of her in the courtyard is a brand on the inside of my skull. It is a searing image that replays itself behind my eyes, each detail a fresh torment. The deep blue of the silk against her pale skin—the Prince’s color. The proprietary way his hand rested on the small of her back. The way she walked a step behind him, a perfect, beautiful, claimed thing.
My rage is no longer a clean, hot fire. It has become a thick, choking smoke that fills my lungs and poisons my blood. I feel it in the restless pacing of my warriors in the yard, in the sharp, angry clang of their blades. They feel the insult as I do. The King’s promise, a matter of honor, has been spat upon by his own son. And the prize, the fragile human with the fire in her eyes, has been stolen away.
I do not want her for my men anymore. The thought of their rough hands on her, of her spirit being broken for their crude amusement, now sends a wave of revulsion through me. The hunger has changed. It is no longer a simple craving for conquest. It is a deeper, more personal ache. A need to be the one who possesses her light, to be the only one who sees that fire in her eyes before it is extinguished.
Varos thinks he has won. He thinks he can hide her away in his cold, stone chambers and declare the matter settled. He thinks his title and his father’s favor are shields against my wrath. He is a fool.
I find him in the strategy room. Of course. Not the training yards, not the armory. A room of maps and calculations, a place as cold and sterile as his own heart. He stands before a massive table carved with a topographical map of Nagaland and its surrounding territories, his long, clawed fingers tracing the border of the Orclands. He is the picture of calm, controlled authority, a Prince planning his next move in a game only he understands.
