Page 10 of Craving Their Venom

AMARA

I wake 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 contradiction to 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. I walk 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 they see me. 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.

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 gesture of 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. It does make 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.