Page 18

18

SEREN

T he crowd still watches.

Heat lingers in my limbs, muscles vibrating with the aftermath of the fight. Blood, still wet, clings to my knuckles, streaking my forearm where I wiped it away. My pulse pounds, not from exertion, but from exhilaration.

Orith’s sharp breaths fill the space behind me, his stance still rigid with defeat. I do not look back. His loss is his own burden to carry.

Naga warriors murmur from the raised platforms, their gazes locked onto me not as prey but as something else. Something they cannot categorize.

Xirath stands apart from the others, his golden gaze locked onto mine with a quiet intensity that settles like a hook beneath my skin.

I won.

I step over Orith’s still-kneeling form, uncaring if it is an insult. Let them feel it. Let them see that I am no longer the fragile thing they thought I was.

Xirath’s tail twitches against the stone floor, a subtle, sharp movement.

He felt it too.

The shift.

The moment where I stopped fighting to survive and started fighting to dominate.

I refused to be owned.

I want to be feared.

The gathered warriors part as I pass through them, my steps slow, measured. Their whispers press against my back, the smell of iron thick in my lungs. The night hums with the remnants of the battle, and I relish it.

Xirath waits at the entrance to the stronghold, arms folded across his broad chest, expression unreadable. But his eyes have not left me.

He is seeing me differently now.

I do not hate it.

Flames flicker against the stone walls, casting long, shifting shadows. The smell of roasted meat and spiced broth hangs in the air, thick, cloying. I should be ravenous.

I am not.

Xirath sits across from me, his expression carved from stone and silence. A plate rests between us, fresh meat sliced into bite-sized pieces, a steaming bowl of thick broth beside it.

I’m surprised that he eats human food. Some naga have develop a penchant for it, but from the knowledge I glean, they have their own diet.

I remain still.

He watches. He waits.

“Eat,” he commands, voice edged with impatience.

A slow exhale slips through my lips. “I’m not hungry.”

The muscle in his jaw flexes.

“You will eat,” he repeats, this time softer, more dangerous.

Tension coils between us, silent but sharp, stretching across the space like a taut rope waiting to snap.

I lean back against the chair, deliberately casual. “What happens if I don’t?”

Xirath doesn’t move at first. A calculated pause.

In a fluid, unnervingly graceful motion, he picks up a piece of the meat, turning it between his fingers before lifting it toward me. “Then I will feed you myself.”

My breath catches in my throat, a sharp betrayal.

Heat licks against my ribs, not from anger.

I force a smirk, tilting my chin higher. “You wouldn’t.”

Golden eyes darken, a slow, deliberate promise.

His tail coils behind him.

I do not react in time.

The sudden shift of movement is too quick to counter, too precise to evade. His tail snakes around my ankle, yanking me forward just enough to unbalance me.

My back presses against the solid warmth of his chest, his breath a whisper against my cheek. The smell of him, smoke, spice, something dark and ancient, invades my senses, sinking deep.

The piece of meat hovers just before my lips.

“Open.” The word is a command. A taunt.

Heat flares in my stomach, curling, twisting.

I clamp my lips shut.

A low chuckle vibrates from his chest, the sound sliding over my skin like silk and steel.

“You are stubborn,” he muses, voice a quiet amusement laced with challenge. His free hand presses beneath my chin, thumb tracing along my jawline. “But you are not stronger than me.”

I still beneath his touch, every nerve in my body taut, waiting.

His grip remains firm, but not cruel. Not yet.

The food presses against my lips, warm, rich. His palm keeps me still.

I should push away.

I should fight.

I do neither.

My lips part, just enough.

Just enough for his fingers to brush against them, for the taste of fire-roasted meat to spread over my tongue.

He exhales, slow, controlled. But I feel the shift in him.

The tension no longer belongs solely to me.

His fingers linger for a moment longer than necessary, the faintest press of skin against skin. Then they withdraw.

Victory flickers in his gaze.

But so does something else.

Something dangerous.

I swallow, throat tight, pulse thrumming in my ears. I refuse to be the one to break first.

I lean back, gaze steady, fingers tapping lightly against the corner of the table. “Happy now?”

His lips curve into something unreadable.

“For now.”

A slow, measured breath leaves my chest, but the fire still lingers, smoldering beneath my heart.

This game is not over.