Page 18 of Craving Their Venom

KAELEN

M y place is tainted. A psychic wound festers in the palace, a discordant shriek in the celestial harmony.

It is the echo of Amara’s ordeal, a brutal claiming that has left her spirit bruised and frayed.

I feel it as a physical ache behind my eyes, a coldness that my deepest meditations cannot warm.

Varos and Zahir, in their blind, prideful rage, have claimed her ruthlessly.

They have driven a spike through the epicenter of the prophecy, pinning it to a board of their own base desires.

They think they have marked her as theirs.

The fools. They have only deepened the shadows around her, making the small, defiant light of her soul flicker and dim.

The Oracle’s words haunt me. A hearth to be shared.

They did not warm their hands by her fire.

They tried to smother it with the weight of their own darkness.

A feeling I have only ever read about in ancient, tragic poems coils in my gut.

It is a cold, sharp-edged thing, a feeling of possessiveness that is utterly foreign to me.

It is not the General’s brutish need to own, nor the Prince’s strategic desire to control.

It is a fierce, protective ache, a spiritual jealousy for the sanctity of her spirit, which they have so crudely violated.

I must go to her. Not to claim her, but to mend her.

To remind her of the light they have tried to extinguish.

I find her in the Prince’s cold, silent chambers. She is curled on the pallet of furs, a small, still form in the oppressive luxury of her cage. She is not sleeping. I can feel the frantic, wounded energy coming from her, a bird with a broken wing hiding in the dark.

She sits up as I enter, her eyes wide with a new, deeper fear. She expects another assault, another claiming as I am in her room. She sees me, another naga male, and her body braces for a fresh violation. The sight of her reflexive terror is a blade twisting in my soul.

“I am not them, Amara,” I say softly, my voice a quiet hum in the tense silence.

I do not approach her directly, but move to the center of the room, lighting a small stick of calming incense I have brought from my sanctuary.

The clean, herbal scent of silver-leaf and mountain gorse begins to push back against the stale air of the chamber.

“I have not come to take. I have come to heal.”

She watches me, her expression a mask of wary disbelief. “There is no healing in this place,” she whispers, her voice hoarse.

“Then we shall make a new place,” I reply. “Here. Now.”

I sit on the floor, a respectful distance from her pallet, and cross my legs. I place my hands on my knees, my posture open, non-threatening. I am not a predator cornering his prey. I am a supplicant before a sacred flame.

“They have left their marks on you,” I say, my gaze soft, yet unwavering. “Not just on your body, but on your spirit. I can feel it. A coldness. A shadow where there should be light. It is a poison, and if it is left to fester, it will consume you.”

“I am already consumed,” she says, a bitter, hopeless edge to her voice.

“No,” I insist, my voice gentle but firm.

“You are the essence of the prophecy. You cannot be consumed. You are the fire that will either purify this kingdom or burn it to ash. But a fire cannot burn if it is starved of air.” I pause, letting my words settle in the quiet room.

“I need to connect with your spirit, Amara. To understand its shape, its strength. The visions I see are clouded by the violence that has been done to you. I need to clear the waters.”

She stares at me, her eyes dark pools of confusion and fear. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to let me in,” I say, the words a profound, terrifying truth. “Not as they did. Not as an invasion, but as an offering. A joining of spirit, as well as flesh. A healing.”

This is a dangerous path. The intimacy I propose is deeper, more absolute than the brutal possession she has already endured. It is a baring of souls, a merging of essences. It is an act that will leave us both irrevocably changed.

She sees the truth of it in my eyes. The fear is still there, but now it is joined by a flicker of something else. A desperate, fragile hope. She is drowning, and I am offering her a hand. She does not know if I mean to pull her to shore or drag her deeper into the abyss.

Slowly, she uncurls from her defensive posture. She moves from the pallet of furs and sits on the floor before me, her knees almost touching mine. She is a vision of pale, wounded beauty in the dim light, her borrowed silk tunic a stark contrast to the raw honesty in her eyes.

“I am afraid,” she whispers.

“I know,” I reply, my voice a soft murmur. “So am I.”

I reach out, my hand hovering in the space between us. I do not touch her. I wait. It must be her choice. After a long, heart-stopping moment, she lifts her own hand and places it in mine. Her skin is warm, her fingers trembling. The contact is a supernova.

The visions begin instantly. Not the chaotic, sensory assault of my scrying ritual, but a gentle, flowing river of images and feelings.

I see her. Not just the captive, but the girl she was.

I see a forest of white-barked trees, I feel the warmth of a mother’s embrace, I hear the sound of her own quiet humming, a song of resilience in the face of despair.

I feel her fear, her loneliness, her fierce, stubborn refusal to be broken.

“You see?” I whisper, my eyes closing as I let the river of her soul wash over me.

“I… I feel…” she stammers, her eyes wide. “Your sadness.”

The prophecy connects us. She feels my own ancient sorrow, the weight of the visions I carry. She is not just a subject of my sight; she is a participant.

My other hand comes up to cup her face, my thumb gently stroking her cheek. “Let me heal the bruises they have left on your spirit,” I murmur, my lips close to hers. “Let me show you what a true joining can be.”

I kiss her. It is not a kiss of possession or of passion. It is the kiss of reverence. It is a question, a plea, an offering. Her lips are soft, hesitant at first, then they part for me, a silent, trembling surrender that is more powerful than any command.

I undress her with the slow, deliberate care of a priest preparing an altar.

I peel away the layers of silk, revealing the pale, luminous beauty of her skin.

There are faint, bluish marks on her hips where Varos’s grip was too tight, a slight redness on her throat where Zahir’s hand held her.

I kiss each mark, not to erase it, but to bless it, to weave it into a new story.

“They are a part of you now,” I whisper against her skin. “A part of the path that has led you here. We will not hide from the darkness. We will fill it with light.”

I lay her down on the furs, her body a canvas of moonlight and shadow.

I worship her with my hands, my mouth, learning the geography of her body.

The soft curve of her stomach, the delicate bones of her collar, the sensitive skin behind her knees.

I am not just exploring her flesh; I am mapping her soul.

Her fear begins to melt away, replaced by a rising tide of pleasure.

Her breath comes in soft, shallow gasps, her hands clutching at my shoulders.

She is opening to me, not just physically, but spiritually.

Her light, the one I have only seen in glimpses, begins to burn brighter, a steady, warm flame.

When she is slick and ready for me, her body arching in silent invitation, I let her see the truth of my own form. My hemipenis, the twin shafts of silver-blue flesh, are not barbed like the others. They are smooth, designed not for brutal anchoring, but for a deeper, more complete connection.

“I will not hurt you, Amara,” I vow, my voice a rough, emotional rasp. “I will only join you.”

I position myself above her, and she looks up at me, her eyes dark and trusting. It is a trust that both terrifies and exalts me. I enter her with my upper shaft, a slow, deep, reverent glide. She is tight, but her body yields to me, accepts me. I am not an invader. I am a welcome guest.

“Kaelen,” she breathes, her fingers tightening in my hair.

The sound of my name on her lips is a prayer. I begin to move, my rhythm a slow, meditative dance. With each thrust, the visions intensify. I am no longer just seeing her past; I am seeing our future.

A flash of three serpents—crimson, gold, and silver-blue—standing not as rivals, but as a unified shield around a single, human heart.

I use my lower shaft to rub against her, against the small, hard pearl of her pleasure. She cries out, a sharp, sweet sound, and the vision shifts.

A great hall, filled not with fear, but with celebration. Naga and human, side by side. A child with her dark hair and my twilight eyes, laughing in Zahir’s strong arms.

“What do you see?” she gasps, her hips beginning to move with mine.

“Hope,” I whisper against her mouth, my voice thick with an emotion I have never known. “I see a world remade.”

I kiss her deeply, pouring all of my reverence, all of my awe, all of my burgeoning, terrifying love into the kiss. I feel her response, a surge of her own pure, human emotion that meets my cosmic vision and creates something new, something powerful.

The pleasure builds, a rising tide of light and energy. It is not the dark, frantic climax she has known before. It is a slow, inexorable ascent toward the stars.

“Stay with me, Amara,” I plead, my voice breaking. “See with me.”

I drive into her, a final, deep thrust, and the universe shatters.

The vision explodes behind my eyes, a supernova of light and sound.

I see it all. The final confrontation with the Tikzorcu.

The fall of the old King. The rise of a new Nagaland, a kingdom forged not in fear, but in a strange, impossible love.

And at the center of it all, her. Always her.

My release is a quiet surrender, a pouring of my very essence into hers. I collapse onto her, my body trembling with the aftershocks of the vision, my soul laid bare.

Our bodies are slick with sweat, the scent of sex and sacred herbs filling the air. I hold her, my heart aching with a love so vast, so profound, it feels like it might tear me apart. The cold stone of jealousy in my gut has melted away, replaced by the warm, steady glow of absolute devotion.

The prophecy is no longer a burden. It is not a riddle to be solved. It is a path. And Amara is not the key. She is the sacred ground upon which that path must be built. I have touched her spirit, and in doing so, I have found my own.