Page 31 of Craving His Venom

Come morning, I may decide whether to let that kiss happen, or keep this growing tension locked away. But for now, in the dim hush of night, I allow myself a moment of quiet yearning, acknowledging that the fortress I once guarded so fiercely is no longer quite so impenetrable when she is near.

9

MIRA

Ijolt awake with the echoes of some old memory burning behind my eyes. My heart thunders in my chest, and for a moment I’m convinced I’m still trapped in that long-ago raid, where shadows swept through my home and left only ash behind. It takes several rasping breaths to remember I’m in the manor—a place I once feared might be my cage, but which now offers a tenuous sort of shelter.

Moonlight spills through the narrow window of my small room, illuminating the austere furniture. My bedding feels clammy against my bare arms, damp from sweat. I flatten my palm over the frantic beat at my throat, willing it to slow. No matter how many nights pass in relative peace, my dreams remain haunted by images of desperate flight and crouched figures with reptilian eyes. The nightmares come in waves, sometimes lying dormant for weeks before ripping me from sleep.

Tonight, the echoes refuse to leave me. My skin tingles with leftover dread, the bed suddenly claustrophobic. I need air, a sense of space, or I’ll suffocate. Rising, I slip on a simple robe, tying it snug at the waist. My short hair clings to the sides of myface, damp from sweat, so I gather it away with the jade-and-gold comb Vahziryn gave me. It’s become second nature to wear it, even though the glint of gold in the night reminds me it’s his token. I try not to dwell on the mixture of gratitude and anxiety that stirs in me whenever I think of him.

Easing open my door, I step into the corridor. The hush is profound at this hour. Lamps burn low in sconces, their flames flickering across carved serpent motifs on the walls. My bare feet make minimal sound as I move along the corridor, listening for any sign of patrolling guards. If I’m spotted wandering so late, there might be questions. But I can’t bear to remain in that stifling room a moment longer.

I wander aimlessly at first, letting my hands brush the stone columns, trying to ground myself in physical reality. The chill of the hall’s floor seeps into my soles, countering the leftover heat from my feverish dream. Now and then, a night insect chirps from some hidden nook, reminding me that even within these walls, the jungle’s heartbeat persists.

Eventually, I find myself near the library, its heavy wooden door ajar. A faint wash of lamp glow spills onto the corridor floor. Curiosity nudges me forward. Perhaps whoever’s there can lend me a distraction, or at least not chase me back to my quarters. I peek inside, half-expecting to see Sahrine or Crick sorting scrolls.

Instead, I spot Vahziryn.

He stands at a long table, a single lantern illuminating the refined lines of his face. His dark hair drapes over his shoulders, some of it tied back with gold clips. Thick black scales trace the length of his forearms, catching the lamp’s glow with a faint sheen. The deep hush accentuates each shift of his tail coiling near his feet. He reads an old scroll, brow furrowed, but something in his posture suggests tension, as though the words on the parchment don’t hold his full attention.

I linger at the threshold, unsure whether to step away or enter. My heart stutters at the memory of our near-kiss in the hidden garden—a moment I haven’t stopped reliving in my thoughts. The memory both thrills and rattles me. And now, standing here, I realize I’m seeking him out in the dark, drawn by that pull I can’t quite name.

Before I can decide, his voice glides through the silence. “You can come inside.” He doesn’t look up from the scroll, but I sense his awareness of me.

I swallow. Tentatively, I push the door wider and step into the library. Rows of shelves tower, laden with tomes, and the air smells faintly of parchment and dust. “I didn’t mean to intrude,” I say, voice hushed. “I couldn’t sleep.”

He lifts his gaze, eyes reflecting faint gold in the lamplight. “Another nightmare?”

I blink, surprised he guessed. “Yes,” I admit. “I get them sometimes.”

His tail shifts, sliding across the floor in a slow, almost soothing motion. “You shouldn’t roam the halls alone when you’re troubled. This place can stir uneasy thoughts if you let it.”

My mouth quirks in a humorless smile. “I think I prefer walking over lying awake with my fears.”

He exhales, setting the scroll down. “Fair enough.” A short pause follows, crackling with an unspoken tension that’s shadowed us for weeks. “Come here,” he finally says, voice quiet but decisive.

I approach, crossing the space illuminated by the lantern. My robe clings to me, the belt at my waist tight from my frantic knotting. Up close, I see the faint lines of strain around his eyes, as if he, too, is carrying a burden that sleep can’t alleviate.

He studies me, expression unreadable. “Sometimes I find it helps to keep busy. Would you like to see what I’m working on?”

I nod, more eager for distraction than I care to admit. He gestures to the parchment spread across the table—ancient text detailing some archaic venom-brewing technique or, possibly, border defense strategies. The script is largely indecipherable to me, but I trace the faint lines with curious eyes. “Is this part of your research?”

He inclines his head. “Part of it. My father once believed that knowledge was a better shield than any blade. I’m trying to see if there’s anything in these records that can help me maintain the estate’s independence.”

I recall the rumors about the naga council, the threat they pose if he doesn’t conform. “If they come for you...?” I trail off, unsure how to finish that thought.

His jaw sets. “They won’t take this domain from me without a fight.” Then, scanning my face, he softens his tone. “But it’s late. You don’t need to worry over that now.”

Silence descends, and I sense his gaze drifting over me, lingering on my tense shoulders, the lines of my neck. A tremor ripples through me, equal parts nerves and something deeper. Despite all logic, I feel oddly safe in this dimly lit room with him. Perhaps it’s the memory of how he’s intervened to protect me before, or the gentle hush that surrounds us.

I rub my arms, as if chasing away the remnants of my nightmare. “Could I stay here for a bit?” I ask, voice trembling with the vulnerability of the request. “Just until my thoughts settle.”

He considers, tail coiling with a measured grace. “Yes,” he says simply. “Sit, if you like.”

I move to a wooden chair near the table, though he remains standing. The flicker of the lantern reveals the set of his shoulders, powerful and poised, black scales glinting whenever he shifts. I watch his expression, noticing how his brow furrowsslightly, as if in concern. A wave of emotion surges in me—gratitude, longing, and a faint flutter of trepidation.

Minutes slip past in companionable quiet. He resumes reading, but every so often, I feel his gaze slide toward me, like he’s verifying I’m still there, that I’m not lost to some invisible threat. My anxiety slowly ebbs, replaced by a warmth that kindles my chest.

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