Page 44 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

A calculated strike.

Minotaurs are strong, but they do not think in strategy. They are pawns, muscle wielded by something sharper, something crueler.

Seren shifts in her seat, her attention sharp as glass. “Do you think they’re coming for me?”

I do not answer immediately.

Her fingers tighten against the wood of the chair, knuckles whitening. She already understands the truth.

Jalith is testing me. He is waiting to see if I falter, if I hesitate.

He will be disappointed.

I turn back to my warriors. “Gather the commanders. We reinforce the northern and eastern gates, but our main defense will be at the western cliffs. If they breach it, they reach the stronghold.”

Veynar bows again. “Understood, my lord.”

The warriors turn to leave, but I do not miss the way their eyes flicker toward Seren before they disappear beyond the doors.

They are waiting to see what I will do with her.

They do not trust her.

Neither do I.

But I do not need trust to use her as a weapon.

The moment the doors shut, she rises from her seat, the movement calm, deliberate. “I’m going with you.”

Amusement curves through my chest, sharp and unexpected. “You will stay here.”

She crosses her arms, jaw tight. “You’ve spent the last few days training me, throwing me into fights, forcing me to learn how to wield a sword, and now you want to leave me behind?”

The defiance does not surprise me.

What does is the fire beneath it.

She does not want to fight out of survival.

She wants to fight because it thrills her.

Just as it thrills me.

The realization should disturb me more than it does.

I step forward, my presence pressing against hers. “This is not a game, little mouse.”

Her chin lifts, unafraid. “It never was.”

The response is so quick, so unwavering, that I feel something coil deep in my gut, something dangerous.

Her breath is measured, controlled. I watch as she forces herself not to step back, not to yield.

A slow exhale leaves me, deliberate, precise. “You will stay.”

Her fingers twitch, as if itching to reach for a weapon she does not have.

“I can fight,” she presses. “You saw it yourself.”

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