Page 40 of Craving His Venom

He arches a brow, tail swishing. “They’re in the main hall. They asked to see the warlord. Something about verifying the state of his household.” He glances up, meeting my eyes. “I hear they specifically want to examine the ‘human assets.’”

My mouth goes dry. “That means me, doesn’t it?”

Crick’s gaze turns sympathetic. “Likely. I doubt they came just to chat. They’ve heard rumors about you.”

A trembling starts in my fingers. “Are they taking me away?”

He exhales, climbing a few steps to stand closer. “The council has the power to do so if they believe you’re an unsanctioned threat or if you ‘pollute’ the naga bloodlines. But that doesn’t mean they’ll succeed.”

I stare at the dripping cloth in my hand, mind spinning. “So, what do I do?”

He shrugs. “Keep your head down. Let Vahziryn handle them. He’s a warlord, exiled or not. He has standing.” A pause, then he lowers his voice. “But if they question you, speak carefully. Don’t incriminate him.”

“Incriminate him how?”

Crick’s jaw sets. “That he’s broken taboo by bedding a human. Or caring for you in ways that exceed normal servitude. If they suspect that, the repercussions could be severe.”

My stomach twists. “I understand.” Though fear pulses in my veins, a spark of anger flares. Isn’t it enough that we must hide something that feels real, all because of archaic laws?

Crick gives a curt nod and turns to leave. “Be cautious,” he warns. “And if they summon you, do not lie about your status, but avoid details they can twist.”

I watch him go, chest tight with a knot of dread. The council’s presence transforms every rumor into a loaded weapon. Finishing my scrubbing feels impossible with the weight of this knowledge pressing down. Still, I force myself to complete the task and deposit the cleaning supplies in a nearby closet. Hiding in corners won't solve anything.

As I move through a corridor leading to the east wing, I spot Sahrine talking to a pair of naga staff. The staff appear on edge, nodding stiffly before hurrying off. Sahrine beckons me closer with the tilt of her head.

She lowers her voice when I approach. “You heard about the scouts?”

I nod. “Crick told me.”

Her mouth tightens. “They’ve already demanded an audience with Vahziryn. He’s meeting them in the main hall, behind closed doors. Rumor says they want him to prove no ‘taint’ exists in his domain.” A flicker of compassion softens her face. “That means you.”

My pulse hammers. “Should I stay out of sight? Or show myself, to prove I’m not a threat?”

She shakes her head, lips pursed in thought. “Stay in your usual routine. Do nothing suspicious. If they call for you, respond calmly. Vahziryn may attempt to hide you, but thatmight raise more suspicion if they already know you exist. Let him choose how to proceed.”

I clench my fists, a wave of frustration rising. I hate feeling powerless, forced to let others decide my fate. Yet I recall how guarded Vahziryn became after our night together, not because he regrets me—he made that clear recently—but because he fears for my safety. Perhaps I must trust his instincts.

“Thank you,” I say to Sahrine. She dips her head, stepping aside as I resume my route, heart pounding.

I spend the next few hours wandering the estate in a daze. Each new hallway or courtyard has me on edge, expecting an ambush of council scouts. The hush of the manor crackles with tension, as though everyone anticipates a verdict. Servants avoid me more than usual, some giving me sidelong looks that suggest pity or fear. My steps feel heavier with every passing minute.

Afternoon light slants through the windows when I hear the distant tread of boots. I press myself to the wall of a corridor, peeking around a pillar. Three naga step past—tall, scaled, wearing official sashes marked with the council’s emblem. They speak in low voices about “tainted property” and “gross violation.” My stomach twists, hearing them mention “the human.” They don’t name me, but it’s obvious who they mean.

As they vanish around a corner, I force my breathing to stay even. So they truly are investigating. The threat is no longer a rumor; it’s flesh and scale, prowling the halls. My nerves rattle at the prospect of them hauling me away, slapping me in chains, or punishing Vahziryn for daring to share more than a master-servant bond with me.

Desperate for some measure of solace, I head to the greenhouse, pushing open the door to the humid air and lush greenery. The space thrums with life—a fountain trickles in the corner, bright blossoms spill from pots, and exotic vines windaround support beams. This place often calms me, a small oasis of color and growth in a world of stone.

I set about watering the plants, trying to ground myself in the simple act of nurturing them. Each droplet that falls into the soil reminds me that life can persist even under dire conditions. The routine soothes my frazzled mind, though I can’t entirely shake the tension in my limbs.

Halfway through watering a row of delicate blossoms, a voice breaks the quiet. “Mira?”

I turn to see Vahziryn standing at the greenhouse’s threshold, tail moving slowly behind him. He looks composed yet coiled with an inner tension. His onyx hair frames the stark angles of his face, and gold flickers in his eyes like embers.

My chest tightens at the sight of him. Images from our shared night flood back, followed by the memory of him distancing himself. But I recall our last conversation, when he decided we wouldn’t hide from each other’s presence anymore. Anxiety wars with relief as I set the watering can aside.

“You’re here,” I murmur, voice softer than I intend.

He nods, stepping into the greenhouse’s humid air. “I’ve been looking for you.”

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