Page 9 of Craving Their Venom

VAROS

T wo days have passed since I threw Zahir from my chambers.

Since I caged the human, ostensibly for her own protection.

The silence she leaves in her wake is more disruptive than the General’s rage.

It follows me from my chambers, a quiet, persistent ghost that clings to my scales and whispers in the hollow spaces between my thoughts.

The court is a nest of vipers, and the human’s scent is on me.

They can all smell it. They see the disruption she has caused, the unprecedented clash between myself and the General.

They see her not as a person, but as a shift in the balance of power.

A new weight on the scales. And they are beginning to press.

I stand on the Grand Balcony overlooking the central plaza, a goblet of chilled rirzed wine in my hand.

The evening air is cool, carrying the scent of the Capital’s strange, night-blooming flowers.

Below, the nobles mingle, their silks shimmering like beetle wings under the light of the crystal lamps.

Lady Xaliya approaches, her violet scales a river of amethyst in the dim light. She moves with the fluid grace of a predator that knows its own beauty is its most effective weapon. She stops beside me, her fan fluttering with a soft, dry hiss.

“Your Highness seems… preoccupied,” she murmurs, her sharp eyes fixed on the plaza below. She can’t look at me, but her words are aimed with the precision of a dart.

“The duties of the crown are a heavy burden, Lady Xaliya,” I reply, my tone clipped and formal.

“Indeed,” she says, her lips curving into a smile that does not reach her eyes.

“Especially when new, unforeseen duties arise. One hears your new pet is quite spirited. A creature that saves its master’s life.

How very… novel. It must be a great comfort to have such a loyal thing tucked away in your chambers. ”

Her words are silk-wrapped razors. Pet. Thing.

Tucked away. She is reminding me of the creature’s station, and by extension, my own folly in elevating it.

She is testing me, probing for the weakness she is certain she has found.

The whispers I have been hearing for two days are now given a voice, and it is as venomous as I expected.

They do not see a savior. They see a vulnerability. My vulnerability.

“Loyalty is a rare and valuable commodity,” I say, my voice dangerously soft. “I would not expect you to understand its worth.”

Her fan snaps shut. A flicker of anger in her slitted pupils. “Of course, Your Highness. A Prince must have his… commodities.” She gives a slight, mocking bow and slithers back into the crowd, leaving her poison hanging in the air behind her.

The rage that builds in me is a cold, familiar thing.

But it is not directed at her. It is directed at the situation, at the weakness she perceives.

The court sees the human not as a sign of my strength, but as a chink in my armor.

A soft spot they can press until I break.

They think I am growing sentimental. They think I can be manipulated through her.

There is only one way to quell such whispers.

There is only one way to reassert the truth of the order.

An object cannot be a weakness. A pet cannot hold power over its master.

I must demonstrate this truth, to them and to myself.

I must reinforce the cage, not just with stone and steel, but with the undeniable reality of my claim.

Later, when the palace is shrouded in the deep, star-dusted silence of the night, I find myself standing before the door to her chamber. The two guards outside my own quarters stiffen as I approach, but do not move to stop me. I am the Prince. I go where I will.

I dismiss the guards at her door with a flick of my hand. They bow and retreat, their heavy footsteps fading down the corridor. I place my hand on the door. It is not locked from the outside. I had it changed. She is not a prisoner of the palace; she is a prisoner of mine.

The door opens without a sound.

The room is dark, the only light a sliver of purple moonlight from the high window.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. She is asleep on the pallet of furs, curled on her side, facing away from the door.

She looks impossibly small in the vastness of the bed, a fragile island in a sea of darkness.

I move into the room, my steps as silent as falling ash. I am a shadow within shadows. I stand over her, watching the slow, even rise and fall of her back. The simple grey tunic she wears has ridden up slightly, exposing the gentle curve of her hip and the pale, vulnerable skin of her lower back.

The air is permeated with her scent. Not the cloying perfumes of the court, but the clean, warm scent of her skin, her hair. It is the scent of life, pure and undiluted. It fills my lungs, a strange, intoxicating poison that both soothes and inflames me.

She makes a soft sound in her sleep, a quiet hum. The same tuneless melody she sang in her cage at the menagerie. A song from a world I cannot imagine. A song of a home she has lost. The sound is a physical blow. It strikes the cold, ambitious part of me and leaves a hairline fracture.

I see the crescent mark at the base of her neck, a faint, dark shape in the moonlight. I have the sudden, overwhelming urge to touch it, to trace its shape with my claw, to feel the beat of her pulse beneath it.

This is madness. This nocturnal vigil. This obsession. She is a tool. A pet. A means to an end. But as I stand here, watching her sleep, the lines between asset and desire blur into a dangerous, intoxicating haze. The rumors of the court were right. She is a weakness. Because she is making me weak.

The decision solidifies in my mind, cold and hard and absolute. I cannot afford this weakness. I must conquer it. I must dominate it until it is nothing more than another tool in my arsenal. I will not be ruled by this strange, soft feeling. I will rule it.

I turn and leave as silently as I came.

The next evening, I summon her.

She enters my main chamber, her eyes wary, her posture defensive. She wears another of the simple silk tunics, this one the color of a pale dawn sky. It makes her look ethereal, breakable.

“You wished to see me?” she asks, her voice quiet but steady.

“The court whispers, Amara,” I say, not bothering with pleasantries. I remain seated in my high-backed chair, forcing her to stand before me like a petitioner. “They see you as my weakness. A lever they can use to pry me from my path. This cannot be.”

“I have done nothing,” she says, a flicker of defiance in her eyes.

“You have done everything,” I counter, rising to my feet.

I stalk toward her, enjoying the way she flinches but holds her ground.

“You exist. That is your crime.” I stop before her, close enough to see the silver dust still clinging to her lashes.

“The court must understand your place. And so must you. You are mine. An object. A possession. Tonight, I will make that truth an undeniable, physical reality.”

Her eyes widen, a dawning horror in their depths. “No.” The word is a choked whisper.

“‘No’ is not a word you are permitted to use,” I say, my voice reverting to a low, cold hiss. I reach for her, my hand closing around her upper arm. Her flesh is soft, her bones delicate. I could snap her arm with a slight increase in pressure. She knows it.

“Please,” she begs, her voice breaking. “Don’t.”

“It is too late for pleading,” I say, pulling her toward the sleeping chamber. She resists, a futile, desperate struggle against my superior strength. It is like a songbird fighting a storm. “This is not a request. It is a command. You will obey.”

I push her into the chamber and let the door swing shut, plunging us into the familiar dimness. She stumbles toward the pallet of furs, catching herself before she falls. She turns to face me, her body trembling, her face a pale mask of terror and defiance.

“This is wrong,” she says, her voice shaking.

“The only thing wrong here is your delusion that you have a choice,” I say, advancing on her. I begin to unfasten the clasps of my tunic. “You are my property. Your body is mine to use as I see fit.”

I stand before her, my chest bare, the golden scales glittering in the moonlight. I am a Prince. A predator. A god in her small, fragile world. I expect her to weep, to collapse.

She does not. She lifts her chin, her eyes blazing with a fire that I find utterly, dangerously, captivating. “Then I will give you nothing. You can take my body, but you will never have me.”

A cruel smile touches my lips. “We shall see.”

I reach for her, and this time, my touch is not a threat. It is a caress. My fingers trail down her arm, over the soft skin of her stomach, tracing the edge of the silk tunic. She shudders, a violent tremor, but she does not pull away.

“You say no,” I murmur, my lips close to her ear. “But your body tells a different story.” I can smell it now, the subtle shift in her scent. The clean warmth is now laced with the sweet, musky aroma of arousal. Her body is betraying her. “You are afraid. But you also desire this. You desire me.”

“I don’t,” she lies, her voice thin.

“Liar,” I whisper, my hand moving lower, pressing against the silk between her thighs. She is wet. Hot and wet for me. The proof of her desire is a heady, triumphant victory. I press my fingers against her, and she lets out a choked gasp, her hips giving an involuntary twitch.

“You feel that?” I murmur, my voice a low, seductive growl. “That is the truth. Your truth. Say it.”

“No.”

“Say it, Amara,” I command, my fingers moving, rubbing against her through the silk, drawing another broken sound from her throat. “Tell me you want me.”

A tear traces a path down her cheek, but her eyes are closed, her head thrown back. “I… I want…” she chokes out.

“You want what?” I press, relentless.

“I want you,” she finally whispers, the words a surrender. A victory so sweet it is almost painful.

“Good,” I say, and then I am tearing the silk from her body.

I lay her down on the furs, her skin luminous in the moonlight.

She is a masterpiece of soft curves and pale, vulnerable flesh.

For a moment, I am frozen by the sheer beauty of her.

The Prince, the strategist, the cold, calculating mind—it all recedes, leaving only the male, the predator, the worshipper.

My touch, when it comes, is not what I intended.

I meant to be rough, to dominate, to reinforce her status as an object.

But my hands move with a strange, reverent gentleness.

I trace the crescent mark on her neck, my claw just ghosting her skin.

I kiss the path of her tear, tasting the salt and her sorrow.

I move between her thighs, and she tenses. I let her see me. The truth of my naga form. My hemipenis, two distinct, barbed shafts, ready for her. Her eyes widen, a fresh wave of fear and fascination washing over her face. It is a sight that has made lesser creatures scream and faint.

She just watches me, her breath held.

“You are mine, Amara,” I whisper, the words a solemn vow. I position myself, taking her with my upper shaft first. It is thick, and she is tight. She cries out, a sharp sound of pain and pleasure. I hold myself still, letting her body adjust to the invasion.

“Look at me,” I command softly. She does, her eyes dark and deep. “You feel that? That is my claim.”

I begin to move, my rhythm slow, deliberate. I am learning her body, the way she arches against me, the soft sounds she makes. The desire to be gentle, to cherish, is a powerful, unexpected tide. I find myself wanting to give her pleasure, not just take my own.

I use my lower shaft to rub against her, against the small, hard nub of her own desire. She cries out again, a different sound this time. A sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Her hips begin to move with mine, meeting my thrusts. She has surrendered completely.

I make her say my name. I make her beg for more. And all the while, a part of my mind is screaming. This is not control. This is not dominance. This is worship. I am not conquering her; I am being conquered by her. By the feel of her skin, the taste of her lips, the sound of her pleasure.

My own release comes with a guttural roar, a sound torn from the very depths of my being. I empty myself into her, my body shuddering with the force of it. I collapse onto her, my head buried in the curve of her neck, my lungs burning.

We lie tangled in the furs, in the silence of the aftermath. My claim has been made. The questions of the court have been answered. I have demonstrated my power, my control.

But as I lie here, with her heart beating a frantic rhythm against my chest, I know the truth. I have not caged a songbird. I have opened a door within myself, a door to a chamber I did not know existed. A chamber filled with a terrifying, exhilarating vulnerability.

I have won the battle, but I have a chilling suspicion that I have just irrevocably lost the war.