Page 97 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

The dark elf considers her, then nods.

He turns.

They begin to leave.

I don’t dare breathe until they are out of sight, slipping through the market’s exit, disappearing into the winding streets beyond.

The moment they’re gone, the market exhales.

Movement resumes. Voices rise. The tension bleeds away, though not entirely.

The merchant beside me lets out a low curse. "Fucking elves."

I don’t disagree.

But my relief is short-lived.

They came here for a reason.

If they don’t find me here, they will keep looking.

I grip a crate, steadying myself.

I need to leave. Now.

Before my luck runs out.

42

XIRATH

The scent of dark elves pollutes the night. I’ve been tracking Seren for hours but, instead, I found them.

I crouch low on the ridge, muscles coiled as I observe their encampment. Lazy bastards. No guards posted, no wards set. Their arrogance makes them weak. They believe themselves untouchable here, so close to the human border, away from the reach of Nagaland.

They're wrong.

The fire in the center of their camp casts long, twisting shadows against the trunks of gnarled trees. Too few of them to be a scouting party, too many for a simple trade mission.

I count seven.

Seven dead men walking.

Their laughter grates against my patience, a low, mocking sound that slides between the cracks of my self-control.

They think they’re safe.

They think they have time.

I unsheathe my blades, the hilts warm against my palms, my pulse slow, steady.

I will teach them what it means to be hunted.

The one closestto the fire doesn’t see me coming.

His voice is mid-sentence when my blade slides through his throat.

He gurgles, hands clawing at the wound, eyes wide as the heat of the fire reflects in them. The others don’t react fast enough, too drunk on their own egos to process the death blooming in their midst.

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