Page 24 of Craving His Venom

We tend the plants in a tense silence, punctuated by the shuffle of soil and the trickle of water. I do my best to appear calm, but Crick’s words spin relentlessly in my head. Did Vahziryn truly gift me the comb just to brand me as his property? The thought stings. Yet a part of me recalls how carefully he forced that comb into my hands, as though reluctant yet determined. That memory doesn’t exactly reassure me.

When we finish, Crick heads out without another word, and I remain behind for a moment, letting the greenhouse’s warm air envelop me. The hush here feels protective, almost soothing. I breathe in the smell of wet leaves, trying to steady the conflicting emotions that roil inside me—gratitude for Vahziryn’s unexpected kindness, fear that I might be dancing toward a snare I can’t escape.

At last, I gather my tools and leave. My next chores take me through the main corridors, dusting statues and polishing the wooden banisters. The estate’s architecture looms around me—arched ceilings adorned with intricate serpentine carvings. I catch glimpses of other servants hurrying about, each wearing the subdued expressions typical of this hush-bound domain.

As I work, my thoughts keep drifting to the idea that Vahziryn might be waiting around any corner. Occasionally, I hum softly—a tune from childhood, though I barely remember its source. Humming helps me focus on the present instead of letting my mind spiral with Crick’s warnings.

Midway through polishing a statue’s base, I notice a subtle shift in the air, like a faint ripple of tension. A prickle moves along my arms, and I turn to see Vahziryn standing at the corridor’s far end, watching me. My heart leaps into my throat. He’s tall, with black scales glinting faintly where the midday light touches them, his obsidian hair framing a face carved in stark lines. The gold in his eyes seems to catch the lamplight, making them glow with predatory interest.

He doesn’t speak. He simply regards me with that intense quiet he wields better than any blade. I recall Crick’s words about naga lords never giving something for free, and a surge of nervousness grips me. Yet a flicker of something else sparks—an inexplicable thrill at his attention, which I promptly try to bury.

Lowering my gaze, I dip my head in greeting. “My lord.”

His footsteps echo as he approaches, each one measured. When he stands close enough for me to sense the warmth of his scaled arms, my breathing hitches. His tail lingers near my feet, not touching but certainly marking his proximity. I force myself not to back away.

“You were humming,” he says quietly, voice low. “Do you always sing when you work?”

The question catches me off guard. “Not always,” I reply, careful to keep my tone calm. “It helps pass the time.”

He tilts his head, his slitted pupils narrowing. “I didn’t realize humans found music in menial tasks.”

I almost want to laugh, but I hold it in. “We find ways to cope, my lord. Even in small joys.”

He’s silent for a moment, observing me as if I’m a peculiar specimen. “That tune...it’s unusual. I haven’t heard it in the capital’s courts or among other human servants.”

I shrug. “It’s from my hometown, long gone now.” The memory is hazy, but I cling to remnants of its lullabies. “There’s nothing special about it.”

His tail glides a fraction closer, nearly brushing the edge of my foot. “If you say so,” he murmurs. “Though it caught my attention.”

My pulse flutters at the admission. Caught his attention. Everything about him catches my attention if I’m being honest, from the ripple of his powerful tail to the quiet authority in his voice. Yet I recall Crick’s warning, so I keep my guard up. “I can hum more quietly,” I offer, stepping back a pace to continue polishing the statue.

He doesn’t move away. “No need,” he says, voice dark with some hidden amusement. “Your tasks are yours to handle as you see fit.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “You shouldn’t feel compelled to hide your voice.”

The statement feels like an invitation, although I can’t imagine why. Trying to quell the sudden jolt of nerves, I turn my attention back to the statue, rubbing a soft cloth over the carved stone. He remains there, watching in silence, his presence intense enough to make me hyperaware of every movement I make.

Eventually, I gather my courage. If I’m to test how far I can speak my mind, this might be a chance. “My lord, may I ask something?”

He arches a brow. “Speak.”

I pause, steadying myself. “I appreciate the freedom you’ve granted me to move about, and the gift you gave. But... I don’t want any misunderstandings. I need to know if there’s an expectation beyond simple gratitude.”

The corridor feels heavier, as if the walls themselves hold their breath. His tail curls tighter, a sure sign of tension. “You suspect I want something in return,” he states quietly, turning the question into a statement.

I force myself to meet his gaze. “I’ve been warned that naga lords rarely do anything without expecting a debt to be repaid.” My voice trembles but remains steady enough.

He regards me with an unreadable expression for a long beat. Then he exhales, the breath hissing past parted lips. “Is that what you fear? That I’ll demand your body, or your servitude, as recompense for a trinket?”

Heat flares under my skin. “I... was told such things happen,” I admit, recalling Crick’s caution.

A flicker crosses his face—anger, perhaps, or frustration. “Be assured, if I wanted that from you, I wouldn’t need to bribe you with a comb,” he says, each word measured. “I’m a warlord, exiled or not. If I wished to claim you in that way, do you think you could stop me?”

My stomach twists at the bluntness. “No,” I whisper, heart pounding. “I couldn’t stop you.”

His eyes narrow. “Then let that suffice. I gave it because I chose to, not to extract some twisted debt. Is that clear?”

I swallow, the finality of his tone echoing in my ears. Despite the cold logic of his words, I sense an undercurrent of something more complicated. “Yes,” I say softly. “Thank you for clarifying.”

He inclines his head once, then steps back, letting some space between us. My pulse thrums at the subtle relief. Yet part of me feels a pang for reasons I can’t articulate—did I want him to show some flicker of personal interest, or is that just fear twisted into curiosity?

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