Page 7 of Craving Their Venom

ZAHIR

T he news of the assassination attempt reaches the training yards not as a whisper, but as a tremor in the very air.

It is a disruption to the clean rhythm of steel on steel, a sour note in the song of glorious violence.

My warriors falter, their movements losing their brutal precision.

I feel the shift instantly, a prickling along my scales. Order has been broken.

Rhax brings the details, his voice a low grunt of disgust. An assassin. A dart. A failure. And at the center of it all, the human pet.

A low growl rumbles in my chest, a vibration of pure, possessive fury. The King promised the creature to my men. A reward. A thing to be used and broken for their amusement. Yet the Prince now has it. It has been under the Prince charge, but now, his hold on her has tighten.

He claims it is for its protection. For the investigation. Lies. Varos does not protect things; he acquires them. He has put his scent on what is mine.

“He oversteps,” I snarl, my claws digging into the leather grip of my practice blade. The rage is a familiar fire, a clean heat that burns away all thought. It is the fire of the battlefield, the fire that has won me a hundred victories.

“The men are… displeased, General,” Rhax says, his meaning clear. Their morale, their reward, has been stolen by the Prince’s political maneuvering.

“Their displeasure is my own,” I say, my voice dropping to a dangerous low.

I slam the blunted practice sword back into the rack with enough force to splinter the wood.

“The Prince forgets that the strength of this kingdom is not forged in whispered deals and silken chambers. It is forged here, in sweat and blood.”

I storm from the training yards, my warriors parting before me like a tide of crimson and black. My destination is set. I will not be summoned. I will not send a messenger. I will go to the Prince’s den myself and retrieve what is mine.

The palace corridors are an affront to my senses.

The air is permeated with the cloying scent of flowers and incense, a perfume designed to mask the stench of decay that festers at the heart of this court.

The guards outside the Prince’s chambers are his own elite unit, their armor polished to a mirror shine, their loyalty absolute.

They move to block my path, their hands on the hilts of their blades.

“The Prince is not to be disturbed,” one of them says, his voice flat and emotionless.

I do not slow my stride. I look through him as if he is glass. “I am the General of Nagaland’s armies,” I growl, my voice resonating with the authority of a thousand battlefields. “And I will go where I please. The only thing you will disturb is my patience. Move.”

They are good warriors. They are disciplined.

But they are not fools. They have seen what my displeasure looks like.

They have seen the bodies I leave in my wake.

They hesitate for a mere fraction of a second, and that is all the opening I need.

I shoulder past them, the impact sending one stumbling back.

The heavy, carved door to the Prince’s chambers is not barred to me.

I shove it open and step inside. The room is as I imagined it. Cold. Silent. Perfect. A mausoleum of black stone and silver light. And in the center of it all, she stands.

Amara.

She is tending to a small cut on her forearm, a thin line of red against her pale skin, likely from a shard of the broken brazier.

She dabs at it with a piece of silk cloth dipped in water, her movements careful, her focus entirely on the small, meticulous task.

She is a picture of quiet self-sufficiency.

The sight is a punch to my gut. I came here to find a cowering pet, a terrified creature I could intimidate and dominate.

I came here to unleash my rage upon her, to make her understand the true meaning of power.

Instead, I find this. This quiet dignity.

This gentle act of self-care in the serpent’s den.

The fire of my rage does not extinguish.

It changes. It transmutes into something else, something hotter and more complex.

It is a possessive, protective inferno that roars to life within me.

The urge to smash, to break, is replaced by an overwhelming, primal need to shield.

To stand between her and the cold, cruel world that would see her torn apart.

She looks up as the door closes behind me, her eyes widening. The cloth falls from her hand. The scent of her fear is sharp, but it is the scent of a startled fawn, not a cornered rat.

“General,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

I stalk toward her, my heavy boots silent on the polished floor. My shadow falls over her, and she flinches, but she does not look away. That infuriating, captivating defiance is still there, a steady flame in the depths of her brown eyes.

“The Prince plays with things that do not belong to him,” I say, my voice rumbling. I stop before her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body. “You were promised to my men.”

“I belong to no one,” she replies, her chin lifting.

“You belong to the one strong enough to hold you,” I counter, my gaze dropping to the cut on her arm.

It is a small wound, insignificant. Yet the sight of her broken skin sends a fresh wave of fury through me.

Fury at the assassin who caused this chaos.

Fury at Varos for allowing her to be in harm’s way.

Fury at the world for being a place where a creature so soft can be so easily damaged.

My hand moves of its own accord. I do not touch her. I reach past her, my fingers closing around the discarded piece of silk. I dip it into the basin of water. My movements feel clumsy, too large for such a delicate task. I turn back to her, holding out the damp cloth.

She stares at my hand, at the crimson scales and black claws, at the weapon of a hand that has ended countless lives. She hesitates, her breath catching in her throat.

“Your wound,” I grunt, my voice rough. It is not a request.

Slowly, as if approaching a wild beast, she extends her arm.

I take it, my grip surprisingly gentle. Her skin is warm, the bones beneath fragile.

I dab at the cut, cleaning away the single, perfect bead of blood.

The contact is a brand. A searing heat that travels up my arm and settles deep in my chest, stoking the protective fire to a roaring blaze.

I am so focused on this small, intimate act that I do not hear the door open.

“Zahir. Release her.”

The voice is like an ice shard down my spine. Varos.

I drop her arm as if it is a hot coal and turn to face him.

He stands in the doorway, a figure of cold, regal fury.

His golden scales seem to shimmer with contained power, his hand resting on the hilt of his ceremonial dagger.

His eyes are chips of frozen gold, and they are fixed on my hand, which had just been touching his property.

“She is not yours to command,” I snarl.

“She is under my protection, by order of the King,” Varos replies, his voice dangerously soft. He steps in the room, his movements fluid and precise. “A duty you seem intent on disrupting. You will leave my chambers. Now.”

“I will leave when I have what I came for,” I say, planting my feet. I am a mountain. I will not be moved.

“And what is that?” Varos asks, a faint, mocking smile touching his lips. “A toy for your men? Or a pet for yourself? Your appetites are so predictable, General.”

The insult is a spark to dry tinder. The rage I have been struggling to contain explodes. With a roar, I launch myself at him.

He is ready for it. He does not meet my charge with brute force.

He is too clever for that. He sidesteps, his dagger flashing out in a silver arc aimed at my ribs.

I twist, the blade slicing through my leather tunic but only grazing my scales.

I pivot, my fist crashing into the side of his head with a satisfying crunch.

He staggers back, shaking his head to clear it.

A thin trickle of blue blood runs from the corner of his mouth.

His eyes are no longer cold. They are blazing with a furious, hateful light.

We have been rivals our entire lives. He, the heir, with his politics and his strategies.

I, the warrior, with my strength and my honor.

We are two sides of the naga soul, and we despise each other.

He comes at me again, his movements a blur of deadly precision.

He is a duelist, his attacks aimed at my weak points, at the gaps in my armor.

I am a berserker. I meet his precision with overwhelming, brutal force.

I slam him against the wall, the stone groaning under the impact.

He brings his knee up sharply into my gut, and the air rushes from my lungs.

We are a whirlwind of violence, a storm of claws and fangs and fury unleashed in the pristine silence of his chambers. The obsidian table is overturned, scrolls scattering across the floor. A crystal vase shatters against a wall. We are destroying his perfect, ordered world, and I revel in it.

I see her, a flash of grey silk in the corner of my eye. Amara. She is pressed against the far wall, her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide with terror. She is watching this display of primal, naga brutality, and the sight of her fear is like a splash of cold water.

The distraction is all Varos needs. He drives his shoulder into my chest, sending me stumbling back. He follows up with a kick that sweeps my legs out from under me. I hit the floor with a crash that shakes the room.

Before I can recover, he is on top of me, the tip of his dagger pressed against my throat. His knee is on my chest, pinning me down. He is breathing heavily, his face reflecting triumphant fury.

“You are a beast, Zahir,” he hisses, his face inches from mine. “A mindless animal. And you will learn your place.”

I bare my fangs, a low growl rumbling in my chest. “And you are a coward, hiding behind titles and decrees.”

The dagger presses deeper. I can feel its cold, sharp point against my scales. He could end me. Here. Now. And the court would call it justice.

But he will not. He is too controlled, too political. Killing me would create a martyr. It would be… messy.

“Sooner or in a while, I will take her,” I growl, the words a solemn vow. “She is mine. The gods themselves have willed it.”

His eyes flicker with something I cannot read. Confusion? Doubt?

“The only thing you will take,” he says in a cold whisper, “is your leave.”

He pushes himself off me and stands, straightening his tunic. He is the victor. The Prince. He has asserted his dominance.

I rise to my feet, my body aching, my pride screaming.

The rage is there, but it is now a cold, hard thing.

A promise. I give him one last look, a look that conveys all the hatred and frustration and a new, burning possessiveness.

Then I turn and stalk from the room, leaving him in the wreckage of his perfect, silent chamber with the prize I have lost.

For now.