Page 10 of Craving His Venom

He draws his hand away slowly, as if catching himself in a lapse. A darkness passes over his features, and he turns aside. “Return to your duties,” he says, voice hollow.

I nod, stepping back. My thoughts spin, uncertain how to process the crackling tension that flared between us. I slip out of the courtyard and hurry along a passageway. My pulse drums a restless beat.

Once in the calmer corridors, I pause near a tall pillar, pressing my palm to my chest. If he truly is cursed, it’s not the kind of curse I expected. The rumors speak of a monster with an icy heart, yet what I saw in his eyes suggests something else. A wound that runs deep, perhaps from the betrayal I overheard mention of. It’s as though he’s fighting a battle between his savage instincts and a desire for something gentler.

I push away from the pillar, determined to bury my confusion by returning to the chores. On the way, I pass another servant—a woman with short brown hair, carrying folded linens. She barely spares me a glance. It occurs to me that many in this household have adapted to life under Vahziryn’s rule without question. Maybe they sense his strength and choose not to delve deeper. But I’ve always noticed details. It’s how I endured in a world that snatches away the weak.

A soft rustle of fabric warns me that Sahrine has appeared behind me again. She approaches with that unerring direction,her unseeing eyes landing on me. “Mira,” she says, “I trust you finished the greenhouse tasks?”

“Yes.” I take a breath, preparing to resume a neutral mask. “I did.”

She cocks her head. “You sound out of breath.”

“I had a moment with the lord. He asked me to continue my duties,” I offer.

Sahrine’s brow furrows slightly. “You should be careful not to disturb his solitude. He chooses it for a reason.”

“I know,” I whisper.

Something about my tone causes her features to shift. She almost seems ready to speak further, but then she closes her mouth. Finally, she says, “Crick needs assistance in the courtyard—he’s organizing crates of supplies delivered this morning. Help him, then finish whatever else remains on your roster.”

I nod and slip away, heading in the direction she indicated. While walking, I feel the manor’s quiet pressing in again—though this time, it carries a different weight. The air holds echoes of my encounter with Vahziryn by the fountain. My fingertips still tingle from the memory of his proximity, the near-touch that sparked an unfamiliar warmth in my stomach.

Crick is kneeling beside a stack of wooden crates in an open courtyard that serves as a receiving area. He pries off the lid of one box with a crowbar, revealing bundles of cloth. Spotting me, he motions me over.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbles, but there’s a teasing glint in his eyes. “Help me inventory these deliveries. Some are for the kitchens, some for the armory. Don’t mix them up.”

I kneel opposite him. “Yes, all right.”

He hands me a small ledger, flipping to a page listing supplies. Together, we match items from the crates to the corresponding lines. An oddly companionable silence settlesbetween us, punctuated by the rustle of packing straw and the scratch of my pen.

Eventually, Crick sighs. “You’ve met the lord properly by now?”

I keep my eyes on the ledger. “We’ve spoken a few times.”

“How’s that going?” His question carries more curiosity than sarcasm.

I set aside a bundle of cloth. “He’s...not like my previous owners.”

Crick snorts softly. “That’s one way to put it. The last half-blood I served under used to whip humans just to watch them scream. Lord Vahziryn doesn’t waste the energy.”

A lump forms in my throat. The difference between cruelty by choice and cruelty by necessity is small comfort, but I cling to it. “I suppose I’m fortunate to be here instead of some other place.”

Crick doesn’t reply, but he nods once, as though acknowledging the complexity of our existence here. We work side by side, sorting through crates of spices, bolts of fabric, steel-tipped arrows, and jars of preserved fruit. Each item has its place in this quiet domain.

As we finish, the sky above shifts toward late afternoon, painting the courtyard in a warm golden hue. Crick slaps the ledger shut, rising to his feet. “That’s enough for now. The rest can wait.”

He strides off, leaving me alone among the crates. I stretch my back, feeling the ache of repetitive work. Despite the labor, a buzzing energy remains in my veins—an aftereffect of my brief moment with Vahziryn. I’m not proud of the strange excitement that lingers. He could kill me if he wished, with that venom and those lethal claws. Yet the fear doesn’t overshadow the flicker of intrigue.

Shaking myself, I gather the leftover packing materials and stash them where the staff disposes of waste. Then I return to my small room, which is mercifully untouched. The bed stands in the corner, the single dresser remains locked with my few belongings, and the window’s tiny rectangle reveals the sinking sun.

Exhaling, I sink onto the mattress. The day has been filled with unexpected moments—from hearing rumors of a curse to almost touching the warlord’s hand. My heart feels unsteady, like a bird trapped in a cage. Despite my best efforts, I can’t chase away the memory of his quiet gaze, nor the way my body reacted to his presence.

Could he sense it? The question leaves a fluttering sensation in my stomach. I brush my fingers across my arm, recalling the warmth that seemed to reach me from him. How foolish to feel anything but caution. And yet here I am, imagining the shape of his scaled forearms, the cut of his jaw, the odd gentleness that seemed to flicker in his eyes before he shut himself off.

Night descends, and I finally light a small oil lamp. The flickering flame illuminates the bare walls. My entire existence now revolves around this household—an arrangement that could be my salvation or downfall, depending on how well I navigate its secrets. I think of Sahrine’s warning, Crick’s grudging respect, and the hushed talk of curses. Vahziryn is not a typical naga lord, that much is certain. But is that difference a good omen for me, or a deeper threat?

A soft knock sounds at the door. I tense, then open it to reveal a younger human servant, a boy no older than twelve. He shuffles, eyes downcast. “Sahrine said you can have some dinner in the kitchens if you’re hungry,” he mumbles.

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