Page 63 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

The war council convenes in the grand hall, their presence a growing storm, pressing down with unspoken accusations. The attack on my stronghold had been a test, a warning, a power play from Jalith and his kind.

The other naga lords are not pleased.

I expected this confrontation, but my patience wears thin.

Torches cast long shadows across the chamber walls, flickering over the impassive faces of those seated around me. The heavy scent of old parchment, of wax-sealed decrees and spiced wine, mingles with the tension woven thick into the room.

Across the long table, Baron Ithros leans forward, his scaled hands folding together with careful precision. His golden eyes gleam with calculated disdain.

“You jeopardized our standing,” he states, his voice smooth as polished steel. “Our defenses were compromised because you abandoned them in favor of a single human.”

The word is spat like an insult, as if she were nothing more than a scrap of refuse to be discarded.

A slow exhale forces through my chest. “Our defenses were compromised long before I left,” I reply, voice even, edged with warning.

Duke Veltren, an older naga with ridged crimson scales, narrows his eyes. “The attack on the stronghold was not an act of war. It was a consequence of your recklessness.”

Recklessness.

The word grates against me, settling like a barbed hook beneath my ribs.

Veltren’s lip curls, revealing the tips of his fangs. “We have tolerated your obsession with the human because it seemed insignificant. But this—” he gestures toward the remnants of the battlefield beyond our gates “—has made it our problem.”

A low growl builds in my chest, but I do not allow it to slip free.

Ithros watches me, waiting, weighing. “This cannot continue,” he murmurs. “The human must be dealt with.”

My muscles coil beneath my skin, a deadly tension threading through my spine. “Dealt with?”

Veltren inclines his head, deliberate. “Send her away. Remove the distraction.”

Silence thickens, stretching, smothering.

Something old and dangerous stirs in my blood.

Send her away.

It is an option I should consider. A rational choice.

Yet, my grip tightens against the carved wood of my chair, claws pressing into the grain.

Veltren watches me too closely.

Ithros speaks again, voice patient, as if explaining to a stubborn child. “You risk war, Viscount. Jalith will not let this go unanswered.”

The name burns through me, coiling deep, a venomous promise.

Jalith.

His filth-tainted hands had dared to reach for what was mine. Had dared to steal from me.

A slow inhale forces down the urge to rise from my seat and silence them all.

She is not supposed to matter.

Yet, the thought of letting her go settles like a jagged blade in my ribs, twisting, relentless.

I push back from the table, the scrape of wood against stone cutting through the heavy silence.

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