Page 3 of Craving Their Venom

ZAHIR

T he clang of steel on steel is the only music I understand.

It is a song of purpose, of strength, of finality.

Here in the training yards, under the bruised purple sky of the Capital, there are no lies.

There is only the bite of the blade, the burn of the muscles, and the clean, honest scent of sweat and blood.

My warriors move through their drills, their bodies a blur of crimson scales and dark leather, their hisses of exertion sharp in the cool air.

This is my kingdom. Not the silent, perfumed halls of the palace, but this place of grit and violence.

My second-in-command, Rhax, approaches, his heavy tail slapping against the packed earth in a familiar, agitated rhythm. “General,” he grunts, his voice a low rumble. “A word from the palace.”

I do not stop my practice swings, my two-handed blade carving silent arcs through the air. The weapon is an extension of my will, a solid, dependable weight in my hands. “I am not interested in the palace’s words.”

“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.”

Her insight is a physical blow. It strikes me with more force than any blade.

A man? I am not a man. I am a weapon. A tool of the King.

A creature of violence and duty. The loneliness of my existence is a fortress I have built around myself, stone by stone.

And this fragile human, with a few quiet words, has just found the gate.

A wave of fury, hot and blinding, washes through me. It is fury at her, for seeing too much. It is fury at myself, for allowing her to see it.

I tighten my grip in her hair, pulling her closer until our faces are inches apart. “There is no man here,” I snarl, letting her feel the full force of my rage. “There is only a General. And his appetites.”

I am about to show her exactly what those appetites entail, to erase her words with a brutal act of dominance, when a sharp rap comes at the door.

“General Zahir.”

The voice is calm, measured, and utterly unwelcome. It is a voice of incense and whispers, of prophecies and secrets. Kaelen.

My growl is a low, guttural sound of pure frustration. I release the human as if she is on fire, and she stumbles back, her hand flying to her throat, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and relief.

“What is it, mystic?” I roar at the door, not bothering to open it.

“I must see the human,” Kaelen’s voice replies, as serene as ever, completely unbothered by my rage. “It is a matter of great spiritual importance.”

Spiritual importance. I want to laugh. The only thing of importance here is my claim, and this silver-scaled priest dares to interrupt it.

“She is not available for your prayers and portents,” I snap.

The door opens. Kaelen stands there, a figure of infuriating calm in the doorway.

His silver-blue scales seem to glow with an inner light, and his eyes, when they land on the human, are filled with that same unnerving, soul-deep intensity I saw in the throne room.

He completely ignores me, his focus entirely on her.

“The prophecy awakens,” he says, a soft whisper that carries more weight than my roar. “And its heart is here. I must speak with her.”

He takes a step into my room, into my territory, his gaze never leaving the woman who stands trembling between us. He has challenged me. Not with a blade, but with the quiet, absolute authority of his faith.

The Prince has touched her. The Mystic now seeks her.

And I, the General, find myself caught in a battle I do not understand, fighting for a prize whose value I am only just beginning to comprehend. The hunger inside me is no longer simple. It is a raging, complex storm, and this human female is its eye.