Page 31 of Craving Their Venom
AMARA
T he royal chambers are no longer a cage.
They are a sanctuary. The cold, austere space that was once Varos’s solitary domain has been transformed.
The air is warm, alive with the scent of the sacred herbs from our ceremony and the thousands of night-blooming flowers that now fill ornate vases in every corner.
Through the vast, arched windows, the city below is a breathtaking galaxy of lanterns, a silent, glittering testament to the new era we have just begun.
We stand in the exact center of the room, the three of them forming a protective, possessive circle around me.
The weight of the mating dress is gone, now replaced by a simple, floor-length robe of white silk so fine it feels like a moonbeam against my skin.
The silence in the room is not empty. It is full.
It hums with the unspoken promises of the ceremony, with the raw, terrifying, and beautiful truth of our shared love.
Kaelen is the first to move. He steps toward me, his silver-blue scales shimmering in the soft lantern light. He does not reach for me with his hands. He reaches for my soul. His twilight eyes, no longer filled with sorrow but with a profound, steady joy, hold mine.
“The ceremony is over, Amara,” he whispers, his voice a low, melodic sound that vibrates in the very air between us. “But our union has just begun.”
He takes my hand and brings it to his lips, his kiss a feather-light, reverent touch against my knuckles.
He leads me toward the massive sleeping pallet, a vast sea of dark furs and silk sheets.
The others follow, their movements silent, their presence a familiar, overwhelming trinity of power and devotion.
He does not push me down. He sits on the edge of the pallet and pulls me gently into his lap, so I am facing him, my legs on either side of his hips. It is an intimate, trusting posture that has little to do with dominance.
“I want to show you the truth of the prophecy,” he murmurs, his hands gently stroking my back, his touch a calming, spiritual balm. “Not as words on a scroll, but as a living, breathing thing.”
He kisses me. It is a slow, deep, searching kiss, a communion of souls.
I feel his calm, his ancient wisdom, his profound, unwavering love pouring into me, and I give him my own fragile, human heart in return.
His hands move with a slow, reverent grace, untying the sash of my robe, pushing the silk from my shoulders.
It pools around my waist, leaving my upper body bare to his worshipful gaze.
He lowers his head, his mouth tracing a path from my lips, down my throat, to the hollow between my breasts. His tongue, forked and delicate, laves my skin, and a shiver of pure, soulful pleasure runs through me. This is not lust. This is a form of prayer.
When he moves lower, his hands gently parting my thighs, I feel no fear. Only a deep, profound sense of rightness. I see him, the twin, smooth shafts of his hemipenis, a beautiful, otherworldly sight. He is made for this. For a joining that is not a conquest, but a completion.
“Let me join you, my heart,” he whispers against the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. “Let our souls become one.”
He enters me with his upper shaft, a slow, impossibly gentle glide that feels like coming home.
I gasp, my head falling back, my fingers tangling in his long, dark hair.
He fills me, a perfect, seamless fit. He does not move, but simply holds himself deep within me, letting our bodies, our spirits, acclimate to this new, profound intimacy.
His lower shaft presses against my clit, a soft, steady pressure that is not demanding, but awakening. “Do you feel that?” he murmurs, his voice a low, hypnotic hum. “That is the connection. The thread that binds us all.”
He begins to move, his rhythm a slow, meditative rocking that is less about physical friction and more about a spiritual merging. With each gentle thrust, I feel the last of my fear, my doubt, my brokenness, begin to dissolve, replaced by a warm, glowing sense of peace.
And then, a new heat is at my back. A massive, calloused hand, rough and warm, settles on my hip. Zahir.
“You are not just his, little heart,” the General growls, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrates through my entire body. He presses his chest against my back, his other arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me tight against him. He is a furnace of raw, possessive heat.
Kaelen opens his eyes, his twilight gaze meeting mine. There is no jealousy there. Only a deep, profound understanding. He continues his slow, gentle rhythm inside me, while Zahir’s mouth finds the sensitive skin of my neck, his fangs gently grazing my pulse point.
“Oh…” I moan, going crazy as pleasure overtakes my mind and courses to every fiber of my being.
“You are ours,” Zahir snarls, his voice thick with a desperate, hungry passion.
He kisses the spot his fangs just marked, his lips a brand of fire on my skin.
His hand moves from my hip, sliding down my stomach, his fingers tangling in the curls between my legs.
He finds my clit, already sensitized by Kaelen’s gentle pressure, and his touch is a jolt of raw, electric pleasure.
He is not gentle. He is a master of my body’s darkest desires, his rough, calloused fingers a perfect, exquisite torment.
I cry out, my hips arching, my body caught between the soulful peace of Kaelen and the savage fire of Zahir.
“Yes,” Zahir growls in my ear, his own arousal a thick, heavy presence against my backside. “That is the sound I have been waiting for. The sound of you, breaking for us.”
He shifts, and I feel the blunt, terrifying pressure of him at my other entrance.
He is impossibly thick, his flesh hot and demanding.
He takes me with his upper shaft, a single, powerful thrust that tears a primal scream from my throat.
It is a brutal, absolute claiming, a savage act of possession that is so profoundly, honestly him .
The pain is a sharp, blinding flash, but it is instantly consumed by a wave of pleasure so intense it is almost unbearable.
“Zahir! Kaelen!” I gasp, choking and my nails dig onto whatever scale I can hold onto.
I am filled, stretched, possessed by two opposing, yet perfectly complementary, forces.
Kaelen is a slow, deep river inside me, a current of soulful peace.
Zahir is a raging, volcanic fire, a brutal, driving rhythm that seeks to consume me whole.
I am the point where they meet, the bridge between their two worlds.
And then, a third presence. Varos.
He kneels before me, his golden eyes on fire with an emotion so intense it steals the breath from my lungs. It is not the cold, possessive fire of before. It is a look of pure, absolute worship.
“My Queen,” he whispers, his voice a tortured, broken thing. He takes my feet in his hands, his touch reverent. He kisses my ankles, my calves, his lips a trail of fire that moves up my legs.
He reaches my core, and I am now the center of their universe.
Kaelen fills my front, his rhythm a slow, sacred dance.
Zahir fills my back, his rhythm a savage, driving beat.
And Varos… Varos kneels before me, his forked tongue a masterful, exquisite instrument of pleasure.
He laves my clit, already exquisitely sensitized by Zahir’s rough fingers, with a skill and a precision that is both breathtaking and utterly devastating.
“You will feel nothing but pleasure, Amara,” he commands, his voice a low, hypnotic whisper against my slick flesh. “You will forget the pain. You will forget the fear. There is only this. Only us.”
His lower shaft, barbed and thick, joins the assault, rubbing against my entrance in a perfect, maddening rhythm with his tongue.
I am coming undone. The world dissolves into a maelstrom of sensation.
The cool, smooth scales of Kaelen. The hot, rough strength of Zahir. The cold, precise mastery of Varos.
“Look at me,” Varos commands, his voice a silken whip. I open my eyes, my vision blurry with tears of pleasure. He is watching me, his golden eyes blazing with a fierce, triumphant love. “You are the soul of this kingdom, Amara. And you are the essence of us. We are nothing without you.”
He uses his upper shaft to enter my mouth, a final, absolute act of possession that is not a violation, but a coronation. I take him, my body now a willing, eager vessel for their shared love.
The pleasure builds, a relentless, coiling serpent of fire and light and soul. It is too much. It is everything. I am being torn apart and put back together, remade in the crucible of their love.
“Please,” I sob, the word a prayer, a plea, a command.
They answer as one. Kaelen’s rhythm deepens, a soulful, spiritual pulse.
Zahir’s thrusts become a savage, frantic beat, a desperate, final claiming.
And Varos’s mouth, his hands, his entire being, focuses on my pleasure with the single-minded intensity of a king conquering his most beloved territory.
I shatter. My body convulses, a violent, endless wave of pure, absolute release that tears a scream from my throat, a sound of such profound, soul-deep pleasure it seems to shake the very foundations of the palace.
My climax triggers theirs. I feel Kaelen’s release, a warm, pulsing wave of pure, spiritual energy. I feel Zahir’s, a hot, flooding torrent of raw, primal life. And I feel Varos’s, a powerful, shuddering surrender that is the most honest thing I have ever known from him.
The world slowly, slowly, comes back into focus.
I am a boneless, trembling wreck, cradled in the arms of my three mates.
Zahir’s chest is a solid wall at my back, his heart a thunderous beat against my skin.
Kaelen’s head is resting on my shoulder, his breath a soft, warm puff against my neck.
And Varos is kneeling before me, his forehead resting on my knee, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his release.
The silence that falls is not empty. It is full. It is full of the scent of our love, of the sound of our shared breaths, of the profound, unbreakable truth of our shared souls.
“Our mate,” Zahir growls, a low, possessive rumble that vibrates through my entire body.
“Our queen,” Varos whispers, his voice a raw, broken thing against my skin.
“Our eternity,” Kaelen breathes, his lips brushing against my ear.
I look from one to the other, at these three beautiful, terrible, and utterly devoted serpents who have laid their world, their hearts, their very souls at my feet. The last of my fear, my doubt, my brokenness, dissolves into nothing.
I am not a captive. I am not a pet. I am not a prophecy.
I am the heart of Nagaland. And I am finally, truly, irrevocably, home.