Page 9

9

XIRATH

S eren stands before me, her expression carved from stone, but I see the tension in her throat, the taut set of her shoulders.

She doesn't speak, doesn't break, but her body tells its own story. She understands what this is now. What I have done.

The other naga don't look at her the same way anymore.

The moment I stepped into the pit, they saw her as mine. The shift was instant, absolute. Some in the crowd had considered her a curiosity. A spectacle.

Now?

Now they see a challenge.

The fight will begin soon.

Not for her, they would never dare.

Not after I have claimed her.

But the other warriors, they will want to see if I am still worthy of holding what I take.

I will remind them.

Seren is watching me. She thinks I will use force, that I will grab her, make her bow, shatter her into something pliable and obedient. That is not my way.

Control is not brute strength. It is patience. It is knowing when to strike and when to wait.

I am very, very good at waiting.

"Step back," I murmur.

Her breath hitches. Small, nearly imperceptible, but there.

She doesn't step back.

Instead, she lifts her chin. "I did not ask to be here."

A slow smirk pulls at my mouth. She is angry.

Good.

"It doesn't matter what you asked for," I say, voice even, low. "It matters what you are."

The muscles in her jaw tighten. "And what am I?"

I let the question hang between us, let it sink into her bones.

I step closer, slow, deliberate, ensuring she feels it before I even reach her.

I don't touch.

I don't have to.

The arena hums with anticipation, the gathered warriors murmuring, waiting. The fight has not yet begun, but their attention is already locked here. On us.

They are watching how she stands, watching how she doesn't bow.

Some are amused. Some impressed.

Some hungry.

I drag my gaze over the faces around us, their slitted eyes gleaming, their tongues flicking out, tasting the defiance still burning in her blood.

She doesn't see it.

But I do.

I tilt my head slightly, my tail curling lazily behind me. "You are being watched."

Her storm-gray eyes don't waver. "I am always being watched."

I chuckle. "Not like this."

I allow a slow glance around the gathered naga, ensuring she follows.

She does.

Her gaze flickers over them, registering their attention, the way their shoulders are squared, the way they weigh her presence, consider it, judge it.

Some of them, some of them think they could take her.

She doesn't belong here.

That is what they believe.

They are waiting to see if I agree.

A murmur rises through the arena. The warriors waiting for the first match are moving forward, stepping into the pit. The challenge is beginning.

The arena master, a naga older than most, his scales dulled with age but his presence as sharp as ever, lifts a clawed hand.

"The Trial of Blood begins," he intones, voice deep enough to shake the stone.

A roar rises from the crowd.

Seren flinches at the sound before she can stop herself.

They see it.

The shift in them is immediate, subtle, but I feel it. The moment prey is scented.

I exhale.

Enough.

I step forward, closing the space between us, until she has no choice but to tip her head to keep her glare locked on mine.

My voice drops low. "You don't want them looking at you."

A muscle in her jaw ticks. "I don't care."

I hum, letting my forked tongue flick out for the barest second, not at her, but around her.

Testing. Measuring.

I smile.

"Then allow me to be clear, little mouse."

I reach for her.

Not to grab. To claim.

The moment my fingers brush her throat, the crowd stills.

The attention shifts.

No longer a challenge to be won.

No longer a curiosity to be weighed.

She is mine.

I feel the way her pulse pounds beneath my palm, the way her breath stills in her throat, caught between rage and something else.

I say it again, for all to hear.

"Mine."

The arena erupts.

Seren jerks back, but I don't let her go.

Not harsh. Not cruel.

But firm.

"You don't want them looking at you," I say again, softer now, just for her.

She doesn't deny it this time.

But she doesn't accept it either.

I release her.

She doesn't run.

The first challenger steps into the pit, his tail coiled, his fangs gleaming.

The fight begins.

But I don't watch him.

I watch her. She is not afraid of the blood.

I like it. It will be beautiful watching her drink the blood of her enemies, ain’t it?