Page 43 of Craving His Venom

Her expression softens. “Stay close to those who’ll protect you. That’s all I can advise.”

I bow my head, fighting tears I refuse to shed in front of her. This dread is suffocating me, a reminder of how fragile my place is. The hours creep by, and dusk finds me in the greenhouse again, seeking solace among the plants. My hands tremble as I trim dead leaves from a vine, trying to channel my energy into something constructive.

A faint shuffle of scales against stone signals Vahziryn’s arrival. I glance up to see him in the greenhouse doorway. He stands tall, black scales glinting in the lamplight, hair loose around his shoulders. His face is drawn, lines of strain framing his slitted gold eyes.

I lower the shears, heart twisting at his obvious fatigue. “You look exhausted.”

He steps inside, tail coiling behind him. “I’ve been contending with their demands all day. They claim they found no direct proof of wrongdoing, but they remain suspicious.”

I set aside the vine, crossing the greenhouse floor to him. “So they’ll leave?”

He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Yes. But they’re filing an official report to the council. They’ll likely return, or worse, the council might summon me. We have a reprieve, not a pardon.”

Fear surges, but I mask it. “What does that mean for us?”

His jaw tightens. “It means we must remain discreet until I figure out a permanent solution. The council’s interest in you isno longer rumor. They want an excuse to brand you as a threat or brand me a heretic.”

I exhale shakily. “How do we fight that?”

He closes the distance, lowering his voice. “By refusing to give them ammunition. For now, we pretend you are just a capable servant. Nothing more.”

Anguish flashes through me. “I know it’s necessary, but it hurts.”

His tail shifts in a slow arc, brushing my calf in a comforting gesture. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice raw with regret. “I hate it, too. But I won’t let them destroy us.”

My heart clenches at the promise in his eyes. Despite the fear, an ember of resolve warms my chest. “Then I’ll endure whatever charade is needed, as long as we remain united.”

He hesitates, tail looping around my leg a fraction tighter, a wordless reassurance. “We will. I vow it.” He glances around the greenhouse, speaking in a low hush. “But for the next few weeks or months, keep your distance in public. If they return, let me handle them. No slip-ups.”

I bite my lip, recalling the easy closeness we once had exploring these plants, the fierce intimacy we shared. Now we must bury it behind a façade of cold politeness. “I understand.”

He studies me, longing and sorrow swirling in his eyes. Then he steps back, tail sliding from my calf. “Until this threat recedes, that’s our only choice.”

A hush settles between us, heavy with unspoken wishes for a life not ruled by archaic laws. My chest aches. “You’ll let me know if anything changes?”

He nods, voice hushed. “Always. Keep faith in that, and in us.”

I watch him leave, a swirl of dread and determination gripping me. The scouts may depart, but the specter of the council remains. Threats loom in every corner, waiting topounce on any sign of our bond. Yet I feel a flicker of defiance. If they mean to label me tainted property, let them see that I won’t surrender easily.

Returning to the vine, I prune the dead leaves with careful motions. Each snip echoes my internal vow: I refuse to be caged by their laws or used to break the man I care for. One day, we might stand openly, but until then, we’ll navigate the shadows of a domain that punishes forbidden ties.

By the time night covers the estate, the scouts have departed, leaving an uneasy silence in their wake. I wander to my small room, alone with the knowledge that I remain a target of their suspicion. As I lie awake, listening to the distant hum of insects and the drip of water from the courtyard fountain, I remind myself that defiance can exist even in hushed corridors.

I will wait, and I will endure. For Vahziryn, for myself, for the fragile, precious connection we built beneath the watchful eyes of a world that insists it must not be. If the council wants a reason to strike, I won’t hand it to them easily. And if they come for me, I’ll face them standing, not cowering.

Sleep eventually takes me, but it’s shallow, haunted by images of scaled figures dragging me away and Vahziryn forced to watch. Yet beneath the fear, determination glows. We’ve survived the first strike, but the battle is only beginning. They may label me “tainted,” but I’ll prove there’s more to me than a mere human pet. And with Vahziryn by my side, I might just weather the storm.

12

VAHZIRYN

Isweep through the corridors of my estate, tail swishing across the polished floors in a subdued rhythm. Outside, the sky broods under a cloak of storm clouds, casting the halls in a pale gray light. The atmosphere inside my domain hasn’t improved since the council’s scouts departed. If anything, I sense a building tension, like a string pulled taut and ready to snap. Despite the reprieve from immediate scrutiny, rumors linger, stirring distrust among my staff. It’s a fragile calm, one I scarcely trust.

I pass a pair of naga guards near the main entrance. They bow their heads, but I see wariness in their slitted eyes, as though they still expect trouble to emerge from the jungled horizon. My own wariness hasn’t subsided either—at night, I sleep lightly, half expecting a midnight raid from council zealots. Yet the push of daily duties forces me to keep functioning, to maintain the façade of normalcy even while I steel myself for the next blow.

I catch fleeting glimpses of Mira throughout the day. She maintains her calm mask, quietly doing her tasks and avoiding direct confrontation with the staff, but I notice the subtle linesof strain around her eyes. Whenever we pass in a corridor or courtyard, a pang flares in my chest—guilt, longing, the fierce drive to protect her. With the council’s departure, we gained a sliver of breathing room, but the knowledge that they might return with evidence or new charges hangs over us like a blade.

This uneasy routine holds until midday, when Sahrine finds me in the eastern wing. Her cane taps against the stone floor, guiding her unseeing eyes with uncanny precision. “My lord,” she says softly, voice taut with concern. “There’s a carriage at the gates. Someone demands to speak with you.”

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