Page 15 of Craving Their Venom
I move between her thighs, and she tenses. I let her see me. The truth of my naga form. My hemipenis, two distinct, barbed shafts, ready for her. Her eyes widen, a fresh wave of fear and fascination washing over her face. It is a sight that has made lesser creatures scream and faint.
She just watches me, her breath held.
“You are mine, Amara,” I whisper, the words a solemn vow. I position myself, taking her with my upper shaft first. It is thick, and she is tight. She cries out, a sharp sound of pain and pleasure. I hold myself still, letting her body adjust to the invasion.
“Look at me,” I command softly. She does, her eyes dark and deep. “You feel that? That is my claim.”
I begin to move, my rhythm slow, deliberate. I am learning her body, the way she arches against me, the soft sounds she makes. The desire to be gentle, to cherish, is a powerful, unexpected tide. I find myself wanting to give her pleasure, not just take my own.
I use my lower shaft to rub against her, against the small, hard nub of her own desire. She cries out again, a different sound this time. A sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Her hips begin to move with mine, meeting my thrusts. She has surrendered completely.
I make her say my name. I make her beg for more. And all the while, a part of my mind is screaming. This is not control. This is not dominance. This is worship. I am not conquering her; I am being conquered by her. By the feel of her skin, the taste of her lips, the sound of her pleasure.
My own release comes with a guttural roar, a sound torn from the very depths of my being. I empty myself into her, mybody shuddering with the force of it. I collapse onto her, my head buried in the curve of her neck, my lungs burning.
We lie tangled in the furs, in the silence of the aftermath. My claim has been made. The questions of the court have been answered. I have demonstrated my power, my control.
But as I lie here, with her heart beating a frantic rhythm against my chest, I know the truth. I have not caged a songbird. I have opened a door within myself, a door to a chamber I did not know existed. A chamber filled with a terrifying, exhilarating vulnerability.
I have won the battle, but I have a chilling suspicion that I have just irrevocably lost the war.
10
AMARA
Iwake to the scent of him. It is a ghost in the air, a phantom presence clinging to the dark furs and the cool silk sheets. It is the scent of chilled stone, of ancient power, and something else, something uniquely his—a clean, sharp fragrance like the air after a lightning strike. The Prince is gone, but his claim remains, a heavy, invisible brand on my skin.
My body is a map of his possession. A deep, thrumming ache has settled in my bones, a soreness in my thighs and hips that is a constant, intimate reminder of his size, his strength, his invasion. I feel… used. A vessel for his power, his frustration, his strange, conflicting desires. He took me, forced my surrender, whispered commands that stripped me bare not just in body, but in will.
And yet…
My fingers drift to the soft skin of my inner thigh, where I remember the shocking, unexpected gentleness of his touch. He spoke of me as an object, a tool, but he handled me like a priceless, fragile artifact. He learned the rhythm of my body with a scholar’s focus, his actions a stark, bewildering contradictionto the cold cruelty of his words. He was a conqueror who chose to worship at the altar of his conquest.
The confusion is a sickness in my gut, a dizzying vertigo that leaves me feeling more unmoored than ever. I am his property. But I am also, in some terrifying and inexplicable way, cherished.
The heavy chamber door opens, and the same trio of grey-scaled naga servants enters. But today, something is different. Before, their indifference was a shield. Now, their gazes flicker toward me, then skitter away, filled with a new, potent mixture of fear and something that looks like resentment. They are handling the Prince’s new favorite. The pet he has claimed in the most absolute way.
They do not speak as they help me from the bed. Their hands are hesitant, their touch almost fearful, as if they expect me to be imbued with some of his volatile power. They bring a new tunic, not the simple grey or dawn-colored silk of before, but one of deep, royal blue, so fine it feels like water against my skin. It is a queen’s garment, and on me, it feels like a costume.
The food they bring is different, too. Not the bland sustenance of a captive, but a feast for a treasured thing. There are sweet, purple berries that burst on my tongue, warm bread still steaming from the ovens, and a small wedge of sharp, hard cheese. A reward. A gilded chain. I eat because my body craves the fuel, but each bite tastes of my submission.
I am dressed and fed, an ornamental doll waiting for its master, when the Prince himself appears at the door. He is dressed in his severe, black military-style tunic, his golden scales a stark, beautiful contrast. His face is an unreadable mask of aristocratic coldness.
“You will walk with me,” he says. It is not a request.
He does not offer his arm this time. He simply turns and expects me to follow, a silent, obedient shadow in his wake. Iwalk a pace behind him, my eyes fixed on the powerful, fluid movement of his back, the slight, menacing sway of his tail.
We move through the main corridors of the palace, and the shift in the court’s atmosphere is a palpable thing. Before, I was a curiosity, a piece of exotic flesh to be stared at. Now, I am a symbol. The lesser nobles and servants we pass avert their eyes, their heads bowing lower than before. They don’t look at me, but theyseeme. They see the Prince’s claim written all over me. This, I realize, is the sliver of protection he has granted me. The jackals will not dare to nip at the heels of the lion’s chosen prey.
But the lions themselves are another matter.
We step out into one of the central courtyards, a vast expanse of crimson sand and artfully placed, skeletal trees. And there, across the courtyard, I see him. Zahir.
The General is not in his training gear. He is dressed in the formal, dark red regalia of his station, but he looks no less brutal. He stands with a group of his ranking officers, a pillar of raw, violent power. He is not looking at Varos. His gaze, a burning, golden fire, is fixed entirely on me.
It is a physical blow. A wave of heat that washes over my skin, making the fine hairs on my arms stand on end. His jealousy is not a subtle thing. It is a living, breathing entity, a suffocating presence that reaches across the courtyard and wraps itself around my throat. His eyes narrow, and I see the raw hatred there, the possessive fury of a predator whose kill has been stolen. In his gaze, I am not just the Prince’s pet. I am the reason for his humiliation, the source of his rage.
My steps falter. My breath lodges in my throat.
