Page 39 of Craving His Venom

With that resolve echoing through me, I turn away from the window, tail sliding behind, the hush of night transforming into a vow. Tomorrow, the confrontation begins, but at least I do not face it empty-handed or alone.

11

MIRA

Iwake to morning light streaming through a high window, painting the stone floor in warm, irregular patches. My body still thrums with memories of the night Vahziryn and I spent together. Two nights ago, I remind myself. It feels both distant and achingly present. The soft linen sheets and the faint smell of the oils used for washing clothes recall a fleeting comfort I’m not sure I can hold onto.

He didn’t come to my room last night, and I spent the dark hours alone, tangled in thoughts of what we shared. My mind keeps circling the same questions: Did that closeness bind us, or did it push him away for good? I force myself to dress, fingers trembling as I tie my tunic. I can’t lie in bed any longer, waiting for answers that never come.

When I step into the corridor, the subdued quiet of the manor strikes me differently than before. Servants glide by with subdued purpose, heads bowed. A few glance my way, curiosity flickering in their eyes, but nobody meets my gaze. Whispers seem to ripple in my wake. I catch snatches of words, half-lost behind the rustling of skirts and the faint echo of footsteps on stone.

“—the human?—”

“—pet or something worse?—”

“—the warlord’s woman?—”

A chill seeps into my limbs. They’re talking about me. The revelation gnaws at my stomach. Being a servant, I’m used to being overlooked, but now, the attention feels charged, as though everyone is waiting for a spectacle. I press my lips together and hurry along, determined to keep my tasks in mind: gather laundry for the guest quarters, help in the kitchens, and tidy the greenhouse plants. But the hushed gossip seems to follow me like a trailing shadow.

At the laundry area, I find Sahrine sitting quietly by a stack of folded sheets. Her unseeing eyes shift in my direction with that uncanny precision she has. “Good morning,” she says in her measured tone.

I summon a thin smile. “Morning, Sahrine.”

She taps her cane lightly on the floor. “Are you all right? You seem... uneasy.” Her voice carries genuine concern, even if she doesn’t express it in open gestures.

I swallow, piling linens into a broad wicker basket. “It’s nothing. Just... I feel like people are talking about me more than usual.”

Her posture goes rigid. “You heard the whispers?”

I nod, glancing around the quiet laundry space. “I can’t catch every detail, but I know it’s about Vahziryn and me. I sense something’s shifted here.” My cheeks burn at the memory of how intimately we’ve shifted each other’s boundaries. But the tension in the halls suggests there’s more than personal rumor at play.

Sahrine draws a slow breath. “Rumors do spread quickly in a place like this. It’s possible the staff suspects you’ve grown closer to him.”

A surge of emotion twists in my chest—part fear, part a strange flutter of defiant pride. “Maybe so,” I murmur, recallingthe way he coiled around me, how his body pressed me to the library table like a promise and a warning. “But it feels larger than idle gossip. Everyone’s skittish, Sahrine.”

She tilts her head, blind gaze unwavering. “I’ve sensed it too. Especially among the naga staff.” Tension lines her face. “Word may be spreading outside the estate as well. If so, the council might become involved.”

My heart thuds. “The naga council. Right.”

I know they hold immense power, enough to make even a warlord of Vahziryn’s stature tread carefully. Anxiety clutches me, recalling how Vahziryn spoke of their wrath if he openly breaks taboo by taking a human as more than a toy. The memory of him turning distant after we shared something so fierce floods back.

I realize I’ve been gripping the basket handle too tightly, my knuckles white. “Does he know? Has Vahziryn said anything about it?”

Sahrine’s mouth tightens. “He’s aware. But he keeps his own counsel. I suspect he’s trying to manage the rumors quietly. For now.”

I lower my gaze. “I see.” The hush that falls between us is thick. “Thank you,” I manage, picking up the basket. “I need to deliver these linens.”

She nods, dismissing me with a gentle wave of her free hand. The weight in my chest grows heavier as I leave the laundry room. I can’t shake the feeling that a storm looms, one far more dangerous than any personal heartbreak.

My chores lead me through corridors I’ve walked a hundred times, but the subtle shift in the atmosphere warps everything. I sense tension hanging in the air like a taut wire, ready to snap. The staff’s hushed voices, the suspicious glances thrown my way—it all spells trouble.

Late in the morning, while I’m scrubbing a stairwell banister, Crick appears at the foot of the steps, arms crossed. His scales glint in uneven patches, evidence of his half-naga heritage. He acknowledges me with a slight nod. “Busy, I see,” he remarks drily.

I slow my scrubbing. “Always.” My tone is guarded. Crick’s bluntness often unsettles me, but I appreciate that he doesn’t sugarcoat anything.

He steps onto the first stair, eyeing me with a mix of sympathy and irony. “You know the council scouts arrived an hour ago, right?”

A spike of dread churns in my stomach. “No,” I reply, hand tightening on the cloth. “No one told me.”

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