Page 8

8

SEREN

I wake to rough hands dragging me from the bed.

Disoriented, I lash out, twisting, snarling, only to be caught, pinned. My legs tangle in the sheets as clawed fingers tighten around my wrists, forcing my arms behind my back.

Three naga loom over me, their golden eyes glowing like embers in the dim chamber. Warriors. Stronger. Faster. Trained to subdue.

I thrash harder. "Let go of me!"

The largest of them chuckles, amusement slithering through his voice like something sickly sweet. "Lord Xirath commands your presence in the arena, human."

The arena.

The words send a sharp spike of alarm through me, twisting in my chest.

I still.

Not in surrender, I am never that. But stillness is a weapon, too, when wielded correctly.

They take it as compliance. Fools.

The moment their grip loosens, I strike, shoving my knee into the ribs of the nearest one, yanking against the iron strength of their holds, my breath sharp with rage.

I get a single step before another coils his tail around my legs, wrenching me backward, my body colliding against the unyielding heat of his chest.

A hiss, low and dark. "Defiant little thing."

"Unhand me," I grit out.

"You are his," another murmurs, the words laced with something unreadable. "If you were not, we would have let you run."

I am not his.

I open my mouth to spit the words at them, but a thick length of cloth is forced over my shoulders, covering my nightclothes, not armor, not chains. A dress.

Dark silk, woven with faint silver embroidery along the edges, soft against my skin. Fine. Expensive. Like a thing to be displayed.

Revulsion claws up my throat.

But I have no choice.

They pull me through the halls, their grip firm, but not cruel. Not bruising. Not like my previous master’s men had been.

That is almost worse.

It means they don't need to hurt me to make me yield.

Because it means they think I will.

The sounds hit first.

Not the roar of the crowd, but the anticipation of it, the hush before the storm, the hum of a hundred voices murmuring, waiting, aching for blood.

I am dragged through the corridors of the coliseum, past walls carved with stories of warriors long dead, their victories etched into the very foundation of this place.

The ground beneath my feet is still warm from the battles that came before.

I don't ask what I am walking toward.

I don't need to.

The stench of fresh blood clings to the sand of the pit, the iron tang sharp, mingling with something thicker, something heady.

Desire.

This is not just a battleground. This is where mates are claimed.

My stomach turns, but I keep my face smooth. Expressionless. I will not give them the pleasure of my fear.

They shove me forward.

The sun slants through the open arches above, painting the arena floor in gold and shadow.

They are waiting.

The naga.

Warriors, nobles, challengers, their eyes rake over me as if assessing a prize yet to be won, their forked tongues flicking, tasting my presence.

A chill slithers down my spine, but I hold myself still, chin lifted.

I don't belong to them, especially not to Xirath.

The murmurs rise, some amused, others interested. A few voices whisper low, mocking.

A human in the arena. A human in their sacred place.

Disgusting, some of them will think.

A curiosity, others will murmur.

An invitation, the worst of them will believe.

I grit my teeth, fight the urge to fold my arms across my chest, to cover myself beneath the silks they forced me into.

Xirath steps into the pit.

The breath that leaves the crowd is almost a thing I can taste.

Not fear.

Respect. Anticipation. A hunger that doesn't belong to me.

Xirath moves through the ground like a shadow carved from obsidian, golden eyes sharp enough to cut, the crimson streaks along his arms and tail a brutal reminder of what he is.

Of what he has done.

The ground trembles faintly beneath the force of his presence.

Not from magic. From sheer, undeniable weight.

They look at me differently now.

Not as prey, not as an offering.

But as something already claimed.

My pulse hammers as he approaches, his steps slow, deliberate. The crowd leans in.

He doesn't look at them.

He only looks at me.

I force my expression into something smooth, unbothered, even as my body rebels against the sheer weight of him.

Of what he is about to do.

He stops just short of me, his tail shifting, circling behind me, not touching, but closing a cage I cannot see.

I lift my chin. "Is this some kind of game?"

His golden eyes flicker with something unreadable. "This is a declaration."

I hold his gaze, my heart hammering against my chest. "Of what?"

His voice is quiet, yet it cuts through the arena as if spoken like a command.

"That you are mine."

The words drag across my skin like the edge of a blade.

The crowd shifts, murmurs rippling through them like waves in a storm, but I don't look away.

I will not bow.

Not here. Not to him.

Xirath watches me, his patience like something ancient and waiting, something I don't understand.

He doesn't touch me.

But his voice settles into my bones.

"You wanted to see how my people fight for their mates?" he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear it now.

The murmuring around us is deafening.

He smiles, slow and dangerous. "You will have your answer soon enough."