Page 24 of Craving Their Venom
I am lost. I am drowning.
My head thrashes on the furs, a low, continuous moan escaping my lips. I am no longer fighting. I am simply… experiencing. I am the center of their universe, the focus of their entire world. And in that terrifying, absolute possession, I find a strange, dark power.
My response to Varos’s mouth on my breast makes Zahir growl, his thrusts becoming deeper, more punishing. My cry of pleasure at Zahir’s touch makes Varos’s grip on my hip tighten, his own rhythm becoming a savage, frantic beat. I am playing them against each other, my body an instrument they are both trying to master.
The pleasure builds, a relentless, coiling serpent in my gut. It is too much. It is overwhelming. It is everything.
I shatter. My body convulses, a series of violent, shuddering waves that seem to go on forever. My scream is a raw, wordless sound of pure, absolute release.
My climax triggers theirs. Varos roars, his release a hot, flooding torrent deep inside me. Zahir groans, a deep, guttural sound of surrender, his own hot seed spilling into me.
They collapse, their heavy bodies pinning me to the furs. The room is silent, save for the sound of our ragged, desperate breaths. They are no longer a General and a Prince. They are two males, spent and exhausted, their rivalry momentarily forgotten in the shared, absolute possession of me.
Zahir’s head is buried in the curve of my neck, his hot breath against my skin. Varos’s hand is still tangled in my hair, his grip now gentle, almost protective.
The tension between them is not gone. The hatred has not vanished. But something new has been forged in the crucible of this shared act. A bond. A dark, twisted, terrifying bond, with me as its unwilling, undeniable center.
I lie there, broken and branded and strangely, terrifyingly, whole. I have been claimed. Not by one naga, but by two. And I know, with a certainty that chills me to the bone, that I will never be free again.
16
VAROS
The aftermath is a ringing silence. The scent of her, a complex perfume of fear and unwilling arousal, is tangled with the musky, aggressive scent of Zahir. My chamber, a place of cold order and absolute control, has been violated, desecrated not just by the General’s presence, but by the chaotic, primal truth of what occurred here. We did not just claim her. We claimed each other, through her.
I stand by the high window, staring down at the sterile perfection of the garden, but I do not see it. I see the scene replaying behind my eyes: the raw, savage power in Zahir’s movements, the way his crimson scales flushed dark with lust, the guttural groan torn from him at his release. I see the terror and the dark, unwilling pleasure in Amara’s eyes as she was torn between us.
My own actions are a source of cold, burning shame. I lost control. I, who pride myself on precision and strategy, was reduced to a rutting beast, my claim on her becoming a crude, public performance of dominance for an audience of one. My rival.
The hatred I feel for Zahir is a familiar, solid thing, the bedrock of my existence. But now, it is complicated. It is tangled with the memory of our shared act, the undeniable reality that our bodies moved in a brutal, synchronous rhythm with her as the fulcrum. We were not allies. We were enemies engaged in the same savage act of conquest. And in that shared violation, a new, grotesque bond was forged. A bond of mutual possession.
I feel a strange, unwelcome flicker of something that might be mistaken for camaraderie. It is the camaraderie of two soldiers who have survived the same bloody, soul-crushing battle. We have both been marked by this. We have both seen a part of each other that no one else has. And we have both been irrevocably altered by the human woman who now lies broken and silent in the other room.
The thought is a poison. I reject it. He is my enemy. She is my property. The matter is settled.
But the silence from the sleeping chamber is a growing weight. She has not made a sound since he left. No weeping. No movement. Just a profound, unnerving stillness. I, who have never felt a moment’s concern for the emotional state of a lesser being, find myself… hesitating.
I push the thoughts away. They are a weakness. A distraction. I have asserted my dominance. I have put the General in his place. I have reinforced my claim. That is all that matters.
A soft knock comes at my main chamber door. It is not the heavy, authoritative rap of a guard. It is a light, almost hesitant sound. I turn, my hand instinctively going to the dagger at my belt.
The door opens, and Kaelen is there. He is a column of silver-blue calm in the charged atmosphere of my chambers. His twilight eyes are filled with their usual ancient sadness, but today, there is something else in them. A sharp, assessingintelligence. A disappointment so profound it’s almost a physical blow.
“The threads have been rewoven,” he says, his voice sounding like a low, melodic buzz that does nothing to soothe the jagged edges of my soul. “Into a pattern of great violence. And great power.”
“Spare me your cryptic pronouncements, mystic,” I snarl, my patience a thin, frayed thread. “The General has been put in his place. The matter is concluded.”
“Concluded?” Kaelen gives a small, sad smile that does not reach his eyes. “You are a fool, Varos, if you believe that. You have not concluded anything. You have merely begun.” He steps into the room, his gaze sweeping over the faint signs of our struggle, the slight disarray that my servants have not yet been summoned to correct. “You think you have won a battle of pride. What you have done is arm our enemies.”
“Our enemies?” I scoff, turning back to the window. “My only enemy is the brute who defiled my property.”
“Your enemy is the one who orchestrated the events that led to this moment,” Kaelen says, his voice taking on a new, urgent intensity. “The one who knew that your pride and the General’s rage would be a far more effective weapon than any poison dart. You have not claimed the human. You have bound yourselves to her, and to each other. You, Zahir, and I. The three prophetic serpents. We are now linked, for better or for worse.”
I turn to face him, a cold dread beginning to seep into my bones. “You place too much faith in ancient scrolls, Kaelen.”
“And you place too much faith in your own control,” he counters, his gaze sharp, unwavering. “Tell me, Prince. When you were with her, when you and Zahir were… united… in your claim, did you feel in control? Or did you feel as if you were a part of something larger, something more powerful and more terrifying than your own will?”
His words strike a nerve. He is right. In that moment, I was not a Prince. I was a force of nature, a part of a primal, chaotic storm. The memory of it, the sheer, overwhelming power, is a heady, terrifying thing.
