Page 4 of Craving Their Venom
“It concerns the new pet,” Rhax says, and I finally still. The blade stops its whisper, its edge glinting with malice. “The Prince visited it. In the menagerie.”
A low growl builds in my chest, a vibration of pure, primal fury. Varos. Of course. The cold, calculating Prince, with his silks and his political games, slithering down to the cages to inspect the new toy. He thinks to claim it, to put his scent on it before I have even had my due. The King promised it to me, to my warriors. A promise made in open court. And the Prince, in his quiet, arrogant way, defies it.
“He did, did he?” I slam the point of my blade into the hard-packed earth. The ground shudders. “He plays a dangerous game, sniffing around what is mine.”
The hunger I felt in the throne room, the raw, possessive urge that seized me when I first saw her, returns with the force of a physical blow. It is more than the simple lust for a new conquest. It is a deeper craving, an ache in the hollow space of my soul I did not know existed until she appeared. Her warmth, her impossible defiance—it is a fire in the frozen landscape of my existence, and I want to crush it in my fist to see if it burns.
“My warriors are restless, General,” Rhax says, his eyes gleaming. “They look forward to the entertainment.”
“They will have it,” I snarl. “But first, I will inspect the creature myself.” I wrench my blade from the ground. “Bring it to my quarters. Now.”
Rhax’s lips curve into a cruel smile. He understands. I am not going to it. It is being brought to me. To my territory. “At once, General.”
My quarters are not like the Prince’s opulent suites. They are spartan, functional. Stone walls, a pallet of furs on a raised platform for a bed, a rack of weapons gleaming in the low light. The only decoration is a tattered battle standard from my first major victory, its fabric stained with the black blood of our enemies. It is a room that smells of leather, steel, and me. It is power. My power.
I wait. I do not pace. I stand in the room, my arms crossed over my chest, my impatience a coiled serpent in my gut. I tap my claws against my scaled arm, a rhythmic, impatient beat.
The guards arrive, their steps heavy in the corridor. They thrust the human female into the room and pull the door shut, the bolt sliding home with a heavy thud.
She stumbles, catching herself on the edge of a weapons table. She is wearing the same simple grey tunic, but her hair is dry now, a cascade of dark silk that makes her pale skin seem even more luminous. She looks impossibly fragile in this room of stone and steel. A songbird in a wolf’s den.
Her eyes, wide and brown, find me. I see the fear there, the frantic beat of a trapped heart. But beneath it, that same infuriating spark of defiance remains. She straightens, her hands clenching into small fists at her sides.
“You are the General,” she says. It is not a question.
“I am,” I growl, my voice rough. I let my gaze roam over her, a slow, deliberate inspection. I am cataloging her weaknesses. The soft column of her throat where a pulse beats frantically. The delicate bones of her wrists. The gentle curve of her hip. She is made of breakable things. “The King promised you to my men. A bit of sport to celebrate our latest victory.”
I want to see her crumble. I want to see her beg. It is the natural order of things. The strong take, the weak submit.
She swallows, the motion visible in her slender throat. “I am not sport.”
The words are quiet, but they ring with the clarity of a struck bell in the silence of the room. I feel a muscle in my jaw twitch.
“You are what I say you are,” I counter, taking a slow step toward her. “Here, in my domain, you are a plaything. A morsel. Nothing more.”
“Even a morsel can have teeth,” she retorts, her voice trembling slightly, but her gaze unwavering.
I laugh, a short, harsh bark of sound. “Teeth? You? A human?” I take another step, closing the distance until I can smell the clean, warm scent of her. It is maddening. It is a scent of life, of softness, in a world that has only ever offered me death and hardness. “Show me your teeth, little morsel. I dare you.”
I am close enough to touch her now. The air crackles with the tension between us. This is the push and pull I understand. The threat, the challenge, the inevitable submission. But with her, the rhythm is wrong. She does not cower. She stands her ground, a tiny, defiant island in the storm of my presence.
This strange hunger claws at me again, a gnawing emptiness that has absolutely nothing to do with food or lust. It is a need to understand this… this anomaly. Why does the sight of her make my blood sing? Why does her defiance feel less like an insult and more like a hook sinking into my flesh?
My curiosity overrides my cruelty. I need to know.
My hand comes up, faster than she can react. I don’t grab her. I cup her face, my large, clawed hand dwarfing her delicate features. Her skin is like heated silk. A violent tremor runs through her entire body, and a small gasp escapes her lips. Her fear is a heady perfume.
“What are you?” I murmur, my thumb tracing the sharp line of her cheekbone. I am searching for something, some physical clue. A flicker of magic. An unnatural resilience in her flesh. Anything to explain this pull.
“I am a woman,” she whispers, her eyes locked on mine. Her breath is warm against my palm.
“You are more than that,” I insist, my voice a low rumble. I lean in, my own forked tongue flickering out to taste the air around her. She smells of herbs, of fear, and of something else… something uniquely, intoxicatingly her. “There is something about you. A warmth. A light.” The words feel foreign on my tongue. I do not speak of light. I live in darkness.
My fingers thread into her hair, tilting her head back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of her throat. The pulse there beats like a frantic drum. I could bite down, end this confusion, end this strange torment with a single, final act of possession. The thought is a dark, seductive whisper in my mind.
“You think me a monster,” I say, my voice rough with an emotion I cannot name.
“I think you want me to see a monster,” she replies, her voice strained but clear. “So you don’t have to see the man.”
