Page 32 of Craving Their Venom
ONE YEAR LATER
T he garden is no longer silent. It breathes.
A year ago, this was a place of cold, sterile beauty, a collection of soulless, perfect plants.
Now, it is a riot of life, a beautiful, chaotic tangle of two worlds.
The skeletal, black-leaved trees of Nagaland now share the soil with the white-barked birches of my lost home, their leaves a vibrant, impossible green against the crimson sand.
The air is no longer just the spicy scent of blue-barked trees; it is sweetened with the familiar, comforting perfume of the wild roses Kia helped me plant, their petals a defiant, gentle pink in this world of jewel-toned predators.
I trail my hand over the low stone wall that borders the path, my fingers tracing the familiar, rough texture.
My other hand rests on the gentle, pronounced swell of my belly, a constant, living reminder of the impossible truth of my new life.
A life stirs within me, a tiny, fluttering kick against my palm.
A life forged from ice, and fire, and starlight, and a single, human heart.
A warm, heavy weight settles on my shoulders, a familiar crimson cloak of muscle and possessive heat.
Zahir. He does not speak, but his presence is a language all its own.
His arm wraps around my waist, his massive, calloused hand coming to rest over mine on my belly.
His touch is no longer a brand of ownership, but a fierce, protective shield.
“He is restless today,” Zahir growls, his voice a low, rumbling thunder against my ear. His chin rests on my shoulder, his fangs gently grazing the sensitive skin of my neck. It is a gesture that once would have sent a shiver of pure terror through me. Now, it is just… Zahir. My Zahir.
“She,” I correct him gently, a soft smile touching my lips. “Kaelen says she has a warrior’s spirit.”
“She will have her father’s strength,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my skin, and I know he does not mean himself. He means all of them.
A shadow falls over us, and a cool, smooth hand takes my free one.
Varos. He stands before me, no longer just a king, but my king.
The cold, aristocratic mask is gone, replaced by a soft, profound tenderness that still, after all this time, makes my heart ache.
His golden scales shimmer in the afternoon sun, and his eyes, once chips of ice, are now pools of molten gold, filled with a love so vast it is almost a tangible thing.
“A warrior’s spirit will serve her well,” he says, his voice the low, melodic baritone that haunts my dreams. “But she will have her mother’s heart. That is a far greater weapon.” He lifts my hand to his lips, his kiss a soft, reverent pressure against my knuckles.
He is still a king. His commands still shape the fate of this nation.
But now, his ambition is tempered by compassion, his strategies guided by a justice I never thought possible in this brutal world.
He has sent grain to the human territories not once, but three times.
He has established a council where human representatives have a voice, a small, hesitant voice, but a voice nonetheless.
He is not just ruling his kingdom. He is healing it.
Its still far from a world where humans are seen as equals or have rights, but it’s a start.
Kaelen appears as he always does, a silent river of silver-blue, his presence a calming balm on the raw, intense energies of his mates. He carries a small, woven basket filled with the sun-apples I love, their familiar, tart scent a welcome ghost from my past.
“She will have her own path,” he says, his twilight eyes shining with a serene, knowing light. He offers me a slice of the apple, and I take it, the crisp, familiar taste a burst of simple joy. “She is not just the fulfillment of a prophecy. She is the beginning of a new one.”
He sits on the stone wall beside me, and Varos and Zahir move to flank us, a living, breathing wall of gold and crimson and silver-blue.
They are so different, these three terrible, beautiful serpents who have claimed my heart.
Varos, the still, cold center of the storm, his love a quiet, unwavering certainty.
Zahir, the raging, protective fire, his love a constant, rumbling volcano of passion and devotion.
And Kaelen, the deep, soulful river, his love a gentle, all-encompassing current that holds us all together.
I lean back against Zahir’s solid warmth, my hand in Varos’s cool, smooth grip, the taste of Kaelen’s offering sweet on my tongue. The child within me gives another, stronger kick, a silent declaration of her own fierce, independent life.
“Do you remember,” I whisper, my gaze on the impossible, beautiful garden we have built together, “the first time you saw me? In the throne room?”
A low growl rumbles in Zahir’s chest. “I remember a frightened little bird I wanted to crush in my fist.”
“I remember a beautiful, insignificant creature,” Varos says, his thumb stroking the back of my hand. “An object.”
“I remember a key,” Kaelen murmurs, his gaze lost in a distant, cosmic memory. “A prophecy.”
I turn my head, looking at each of them in turn. “And now?”
Zahir’s arm tightens around me, his voice a low, raw confession against my hair. “Now, you are the only thing in this world that is not a target. You are the only thing I would not break.”
Varos lifts my hand to his lips again, his golden eyes holding mine with a raw, absolute sincerity. “Now, you are the only object in this kingdom that I would kneel to. You are my queen, in truth, not just in title.”
Kaelen reaches out, his hand gently cupping my cheek, his touch a familiar, soulful connection. “Now,” he whispers, his voice thick with an emotion so profound it is almost a physical thing, “you are no longer the key to the prophecy. You are the answer to all of my prayers.”
The love they offer is not a simple, easy thing.
It is a dark, complex, and deeply possessive love, forged in the fires of betrayal, of violence, of a shared, desperate need.
Zahir’s jealousy is still a palpable thing, a low, constant hum of proprietary rage directed at any who look at me for a moment too long.
Varos’s need for control is still absolute, but it is now directed at my comfort, my safety, my happiness.
And Kaelen’s wisdom, his connection to the cosmos, is now a shield that he wraps around our small, impossible family.
They are still monsters. My beautiful, terrible, and utterly devoted monsters. But they are my monsters. And I am their human heart.
The child within me kicks again, a strong, insistent demand for attention. All three of them look down at my belly, their fierce, predatory faces softening with a shared, profound awe.
“She will be a queen,” Varos says, his voice a vow.
“She will be a warrior,” Zahir growls, a note of fierce pride in his voice.
“She will be loved,” Kaelen whispers, and in his words, I hear the final, beautiful truth of the prophecy.
I look at them, at the King, the General, and the High Priest, at the three warring serpents who found their unity not in a scroll or a vision, but in the heart of a broken human girl. I see the love in their eyes, a love so vast, so powerful, it has remade a kingdom, and remade me.
The old kingdom is dead. The old Amara, the frightened, captive girl, is dead as well. And from the ashes, something new has risen. Something strong. Something beautiful. Something that is, finally, truly, home.