Page 7 of Naga Warrior's Mate

They soon walked through winding corridors, each step echoing against stone walls.Alaysia counted the turns—right, left, up a narrow staircase.Different from yesterday’s route.

The private chamber sparkled with polished marble and gold fixtures.Steam rose from a sunken bath filled with rose-scented water.

“Strip now,” Marcella ordered, her voice gentler than before.

Alaysia reluctantly complied, removing her worn linen dress.She stepped toward the sunken bath with hesitation.

The water enveloped her in silken warmth when she finally entered.Two attendants soon scrubbed her skin raw with pumice stones and sweet-smelling oils.

“Careful with her hair,” Marcella barked at an attendant wielding a comb.“It’s her best feature.”

“My best feature is my ability to throw a punch,” Alaysia muttered.

Marcella’s lips twitched.“Save that spirit.You’ll need it.”

After the bath, they dressed her in an emerald silk dress that clung to every curve.The neckline plunged dangerously low, exposing her cleavage.

“Hold still.”Marcella fastened a delicate gold chain around Alaysia’s neck.It felt like a collar.

“I look like a prize animal at auction,” Alaysia said, examining her reflection.

“You look valuable.”Marcella met Alaysia’s eyes in the mirror as she worked through her damp hair, arranging the red waves to frame her face.

Alaysia touched her dress.It restricted her movement, making her vulnerable.But vulnerability could be a weapon, too.Let them think she was just something pretty to look at.

“There.”Marcella stepped back to examine her work.“Beautiful.”

The crowd parted as Alaysia walked through, her emerald dress swishing against the polished floor.Every step felt like walking on needles in the heeled shoes they’d forced her to wear.The fighting ring’s main hall buzzed with activity—gambling, drinking, and deal-making happening in every corner.

Marcella’s presence beside her was both a comfort and a cage.“Eyes forward,” she murmured.“Don’t engage.”

A drunk Jorvlen reached for Alaysia’s hair.Marcella’s hand shot out, blocking his path.“The prize is not to be touched.”

The way they looked at her made her skin crawl.Like she was meat at the market.She kept her chin high, though, counting exits and noting guard positions.Three doors to the east, heavily watched.Two to the west, less security but required crossing the main floor.

They climbed carpeted stairs to a private viewing box.The elevated position gave her a perfect view of both the fighting ring and the crowd below.Plush velvet chairs lined the railing.

“Sit,” Marcella commanded, positioning herself between Alaysia and the box’s entrance.

Below, two fighters circled each other in the sand-covered ring.Blood already stained the ground from earlier matches.The larger competitor lunged, his fist connecting with a sickening crunch.

“This is barbaric,” Alaysia whispered.

“This is business,” Marcella replied flatly.

A roar went up from the crowd as one fighter went down.Alaysia’s stomach turned at the spray of blood.

As the fighting matches continued, Marcella told Alaysia about the different fighters as well as their strengths and weaknesses.

“That one there,” Marcella pointed to a scarred fighter with cybernetic enhancements, “fights dirty.Keeps plasma charges in his artificial arm.Half the time they malfunction and explode in his face.”

Alaysia leaned forward, her silk dress rustling against the velvet chair.She studied the various combatants.Any intel on them might be useful to her later.

“The tall one with the tentacles?Slower than he looks.Gets tangled up in his own limbs when he’s tired.”Marcella’s commentary continued as fighters rotated through matches.

The crowd’s roar shifted to hushed whispers as the next fighter emerged.Alaysia’s breath caught in her throat.A Naga entered the ring, his powerful tail leaving serpentine patterns in the bloodstained sand.Golden scales caught the harsh arena lights, creating an ethereal shimmer across his muscled torso.Each movement was precise, calculated, deadly grace personified.

Her fingers gripped the chair’s armrest as he circled his opponent.The Naga’s jaw clenched, his golden eyes focused with predatory intensity.A network of small scars marked his skin—testament to countless battles.His opponent, a burly Jorvlen, charged forward with a battle cry.

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