Page 14 of Craving Their Venom

ZAHIR

T he madness has a name. Amara. It is a poison that has seeped into my blood, a fever that has taken root in my soul.

I stand in the brutal, honest sunlight of my private training yard, the scent of dust and steel a familiar comfort, but my mind is not here.

It is in a shadowed alcove, with the feel of her trembling body pressed against mine, the memory of her scent a ghost on my skin.

I protected her. I, who have razed cities and broken armies, stood as a shield for a fragile human pet.

The Prince’s pet. The thought is a jagged piece of stone in my gut.

I did not do it for him. It’s not for the prophecy.

I did it because the image of her, pale and broken, is a desecration I cannot permit.

Her helplessness is the problem. It is a beacon for the vipers in this court, a weakness they will exploit until she is destroyed.

And the thought of her destruction is a void that opens beneath my feet.

I cannot be her shadow, her constant guardian.

The Prince is too proud to protect her properly, and the Mystic is lost in his scrolls and stars.

If she is to survive this nest of serpents, she cannot be prey.

The decision is not a thought. It is an instinct. A primal, absolute certainty. I will not allow her to be a victim. I will forge her into something else.

I do not send for her. I go myself. The guards at the Prince’s chambers see me coming, a crimson storm of purpose, and this time, they have the good sense to step aside immediately. I do not knock. I slam the door open with enough force to make it shudder on its hinges.

She is by the window, staring out at the sterile garden, a small, lonely figure in a cage of silk and stone. She turns, her eyes widening with alarm as I fill the doorway.

“You,” she breathes.

“Me,” I growl. I stalk toward her, my patience a thin, frayed thread. “Your lesson in survival was insufficient. You hesitate. You trust. You will die. Today, that changes. I told you I will come to you, it’s time.”

I grab her arm. My grip is firm, unyielding, but I am conscious of the delicate bones beneath her soft skin. I do not want to break her. I want to temper her. Like steel.

“What are you doing?” she cries, struggling against my hold, a futile, desperate flutter.

“I am teaching you not to be a target,” I snarl, pulling her from the chamber.

We move through the palace, a predator dragging his kill, though my purpose is the opposite.

The nobles we pass flatten themselves against the walls, their eyes wide with fear and morbid curiosity.

Let them watch. Let them see that the General has claimed an interest in the Prince’s pet. Let them wonder.

I drag her to my training grounds, a place of hard-packed earth, splintered weapon racks, and the ghosts of a thousand violent exertions. It is my church. My sanctuary. The air here is clean, honest. It smells of sweat and effort, not lies and perfume.

I shove her toward the center of the yard, onto the rough, woven mats that cover the ground. She stumbles but catches her balance, her body tense, her eyes blazing with a mixture of terror and fury.

“You will learn to fight,” I command, circling her.

“I cannot fight a naga,” she says, her voice shaking but defiant. “It’s impossible.”

“I am not teaching you to win,” I retort, stopping in front of her. “I am teaching you to live for one more second. To create a moment of hesitation. To give yourself an opening to run. In a fight you cannot win, survival is the only victory.”

I lunge at her, my movements deliberately slow, telegraphing my intent. “Block me.”

She throws her arms up in a clumsy, defensive gesture. I sweep them aside with one hand and shove her hard in the chest. She falls backward onto the mat with a soft oof .

“Pathetic,” I spit, looming over her. “You are a sack of soft flesh and breakable bones. Your only weapon is your mind. Use it. Anticipate. Evade. Get up.”

She pushes herself up, her face smudged with dust, her eyes glittering with unshed tears of frustration. “Again,” I command.

We continue this brutal dance for what feels like hours.

I push her. I trip her. I use my tail. I show her how to twist out of a grip, how to aim for a weak point—the eyes, the throat, the joints.

She is clumsy. She is weak. But she does not give up.

Each time I knock her down, she gets back up, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her body trembling with exhaustion, but her eyes never losing that core of stubborn fire.

The sun climbs higher, beating down on the yard, making the air thick and hot.

Sweat slicks her skin, making the pale silk of her tunic cling to her body, outlining the soft curves of her breasts, the gentle flare of her hips.

Her scent, sharp and female and alive, fills my senses, a potent distraction that makes my blood run thick and hot.

The lesson is becoming a torment. Every point of contact, every time my scaled hand closes over her soft arm, every time our bodies collide, is a spark on dry tinder.

The air between us is no longer just the space between teacher and student.

It is a charged, electric field of pure, undiluted tension.

I have her pinned on the mat, my body covering hers, my weight holding her down.

One of my hands is on her throat, not choking her, but demonstrating a hold.

My thumb rests in the hollow of her throat, where her pulse beats like a frantic, trapped bird.

Her chest heaves with her ragged breaths, her breasts pressing against my chest. Her legs are tangled with mine.

“The throat is a target,” I say, my voice is a rough rasp. “But it is also a trap. An opponent will expect it. You must be unexpected.”

Her eyes, dark and wide, are locked on mine. They are no longer just defiant. They are filled with something else. A dark, liquid heat that mirrors the fire in my own veins. Her lips are parted, her breath a soft, warm puff against my chin.

“What… what is unexpected?” she whispers, her voice hoarse.

My gaze drops to her mouth. The thought comes unbidden, a bolt of lightning in the storm of my mind. This. This would be unexpected. To kiss her now. To devour her mouth, to taste her surrender.

The madness claws at me, the need to claim her, to brand her not just with my protection, but with my mouth, my body. My control, a thing I have honed over a lifetime of brutal discipline, is beginning to fracture.

“You are not learning,” I growl, pushing myself up, putting a sliver of distance between us. I am angry at her, for being so distracting. I am furious with myself, for being so weak.

“You are a harsh teacher,” she says, her voice still breathy. She does not move from the mat, but lies there, looking up at me through her lashes, a picture of beautiful, disheveled surrender.

“I was not taught by a gentle hand,” I snarl, the words torn from me before I can stop them.

“I was raised in the barracks, not the palace. My cradle was a shield. My lullabies were the sharpening of blades. I learned to fight before I learned to speak my own name. There is no softness in me, because softness is a luxury a warrior cannot afford.”

The confession lingers in the air between us, raw and ugly. I have never spoken of this to anyone. It is a truth I carry deep within me, the bedrock of my brutal existence. I have just handed her a piece of my own soul, and I do not know why.

She stares up at me, and the heat in her eyes is replaced by a profound, startling empathy. She sees me. Not the General, not the monster. She sees the lonely, brutalized fledgling I once was.

“You are wrong,” she whispers, her voice filled with a strange, aching tenderness. “There is softness in you. I have felt it.”

She reaches up, her small, human hand touching the scar on my cheek, the one Varos gave me. Her touch is not a caress. It is a question. A statement. It is an act of impossible courage.

The last of my control shatters.

With a guttural roar, I am on her again, my mouth crashing down on hers.

It is not a kiss. It is a conquest. A desperate, savage attempt to erase her words, to erase the truth she has shown me.

I plunder her mouth, my tongue tangling with hers, tasting the salt of her sweat, the sweetness of her fear, the intoxicating flavor of her surrender.

She does not fight me. She melts beneath me, her arms coming up to wrap around my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair. She kisses me back with a desperate, hungry passion that matches my own. She is not a victim. She is a willing participant in this madness.

My hand moves from her throat, sliding down her body, over the slick silk of her tunic, to the soft curve of her hip.

I am about to tear the fabric from her, to take her here, on the rough mats of the training yard, to claim her completely, when a voice, as cold and sharp as a shard of ice, cuts through the haze of my lust.

“Touching my property again, General?”

I freeze, my body rigid. I lift my head. Varos stands at the edge of the training yard, a figure of immaculate, cold fury. His arms are crossed over his chest, his eyes blazing with a hatred so pure it is almost beautiful. He saw. He saw it all.

I am still covering Amara’s body with my own, her arms still around my neck, her lips swollen and red from my kiss. We are caught. An animal caught in a trap.

I look down at her. Her eyes are wide with a fresh wave of terror. I look back at the Prince. His cold smile is a promise of retribution.

The battle for her body, for her soul, has just escalated beyond all reckoning. And I, who have never known fear on the battlefield, am for the first time in my life, truly, utterly, terrified.