Page 35 of Craving His Venom

I clench my jaw. “Spare me your counsel. This is my decision.”

A tense hush reigns, though I catch a flicker of sympathy on her features. Sahrine has served me for years, and despite her bluntness, she remains loyal. “Very well,” she says quietly. “I’ll arrange a messenger. Do you want the brewer to come here, or for them to send the potion via courier?”

“Have them send the potion discreetly,” I answer, chest tight. “I won’t risk an outsider seeing too much.”

She inclines her head. “As you wish.” Turning, she takes a few steps before hesitating. “My lord, if I may— pushing Mira away now might protect you from the council, but it may hurt you more than you realize.”

I bristle, tail snapping the ground. “If it keeps us alive, so be it.”

Sahrine bows her head, then continues on, cane tapping in a slow rhythm. I stand there, ledger in hand, breath unsteady. The corridor feels stifling. I weigh the risk of letting my desire for Mira continue unchecked. If the council learns I’ve bedded a human without the formal bond or declared concubine status, they’ll swoop in, brand me a heretic or a traitor, strip me of my lands, or worse. I recall Rahlazen’s sneer as he threatened to expose me for simply defending Mira. This is far more damning.

Frustration builds, hot and sharp. My mind conjures the memory of Mira’s sleeping form, how her cheek pressed against my shoulder as if she found genuine peace in my arms. I tear my thoughts away, bury them. Emotion is a trap. There’s no space for softness when our world punishes such weakness.

Steeling myself, I proceed to my study, where I scribble a quick note for the brewer, detailing the formula I need—something to blunt my physical urges and calm the roiling desire that threatens to sabotage my caution. Before sealing it, I pause, tail flicking. A twisted part of me rebels, not wanting to quell the searing flame that erupted between us. But the voice of survival is louder.

I sign the letter with precise strokes, fold it, and leave it on the corner of my desk. By the time I emerge, Sahrine has likely dispatched the messenger. My chest feels hollow, an echo of the conflict raging inside me.

Trying to distract myself, I spend the next few hours overseeing household matters. I speak to Crick about border patrols, glower at Rahlazen’s ranting from his locked chamber, and ensure the staff remains vigilant. A hush clings to the corridors, as though the entire estate senses my agitation. Occasionally, I catch glimpses of human servants darting away, presumably to avoid my notice.

Mira is nowhere in sight, and I can’t decide if that’s relief or disappointment. The coil of longing deep in my bellydoesn’t fade, no matter how sternly I remind myself of the consequences. Each time I think of her, my mind drifts back to the library table, the taste of her kisses, her trembling acceptance of my unusual form. Guilt flares. She trusted me not to harm her. Did I betray that trust by letting my lust overshadow her safety?

I force myself to keep moving. Duty is my shield. That’s how I survived exile, how I built this territory into a fortress. Emotions threatened that once, and I nearly lost my life. I won’t repeat those mistakes.

By late afternoon, I learn from Sahrine that the brewer’s package arrived—two vials of thick, opalescent liquid that I can ingest to dull my physical cravings. She sets them on my desk with a quiet caution. “They must be taken carefully, my lord. Too high a dose can hamper your ability to fight or reason.”

I grunt in acknowledgment. “It’s temporary, just until I rectify this situation.”

She dips her head but says nothing more. I sense her disapproval, and it gnaws at me. Does she think my solution is cowardice? I push the thought aside, uncorking a vial to examine the swirling mixture. The scent is pungent, reminiscent of crushed herbs and something metallic. My tail thrashes once.

I weigh the cost of swallowing this brew: a forced numbness that might keep me from repeating last night’s impulsive act. The alternative is to let this madness flourish. The memory of Mira’s soft moans resurfaces, stirring desire in my gut. My throat tightens. I might not be able to resist her if the chance arises again. But if I feed that hunger, how long until the council’s wrath descends upon us both?

At last, I raise the vial to my lips, bracing for bitterness, and down half of it in one go. The taste is vile, scorching a path down my throat. My eyes water, and I cough, but within moments, an odd numbness begins to spread through my limbs. It’s nota total sedation, more like a dampening of the coiled tension in my gut. My tail relaxes, movements growing sluggish. A mental haze drifts in, dulling the heated fantasies that tormented me all morning.

I slump into the chair, panting softly. My scalp prickles, and for a moment, I fear I might pass out. Gradually, the sensation stabilizes. My mind feels both clearer and unnervingly distant, as though I’m viewing my life through a pane of tinted glass. The fiery longing that plagued me shrinks to a faint ember. Relief mingles with dread. This might be what I need to maintain control, though it tastes too close to self-inflicted apathy for my liking.

A sudden knock jolts me from my stupor. “Enter,” I call, voice lower than usual.

Crick steps in, arching a brow. “My lord, you look... unwell.” His gaze drifts to the half-empty vial on my desk, suspicion flickering in his slitted eyes. “Are you mixing potions now?”

I scowl. “That’s none of your business.”

He crosses his arms, ignoring the bristling note in my tone. “I heard talk about you and the human girl, how you’ve been seen more often together.” He shrugs, tail swishing. “People notice. Are you sure doping yourself with potions is the solution? Instead of, I don’t know, forging a real plan to handle the council?”

I bristle, the suppressed anger flaring, though less intensely than it would without the potion’s effect. “I do not require your counsel. The council hasn’t found cause to strike yet.”

Crick snorts. “They will, if Rahlazen says anything. Or if rumors spread that you’re dabbling with a human as though she’s more than a servant.” His gaze sharpens. “I’ve heard you might send her away. Is that wise?”

My chest tightens at the mention of sending Mira away. The memory of her parted lips, the warmth in her eyes, resurfaces,only to be muffled by the potion’s haze. “Wise or not, it might be the only path.”

Crick releases a frustrated breath. “If you truly want to exile her from here, that’s your choice. But I’ve seen what that does to naga who care, even if they won’t admit it.”

I bare my fangs in a silent snarl. “Care,” I echo mockingly. “I do what I must to protect this territory from meddling. She’s a risk.”

Crick studies me for a long moment before turning to leave. “All right,” he mutters. “But from the look in your eyes, I doubt you’ll find peace that way.” Then he’s gone, shutting the door behind him.

A hollow ache spreads through me, even under the effects of the suppressant. Anger ebbs, replaced by a faint sense of dread. Perhaps I can’t shut down my emotions entirely, no matter how potent the brewer’s concoction is. The conversation with Crick stirs an ache that the haze can’t fully smother.

I push to my feet, ignoring the slight unsteadiness in my limbs, and pace the study. My tail drags behind me, not quite responding with its usual snap. The silence within these walls presses down, thick and inescapable. I recall the old ways: a naga must never demonstrate weakness. Letting a human occupy my bed, unbound by ritual, is considered an unforgivable breach by many. If it becomes known, I risk the entire estate. Or I risk losing her, in a way that might be final.

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