Page 47 of Craving Their Venom
He kneels before me, his golden eyes on fire with an emotion so intense it steals the breath from my lungs. It is not the cold, possessive fire of before. It is a look of pure, absolute worship.
“My Queen,” he whispers, his voice a tortured, broken thing. He takes my feet in his hands, his touch reverent. He kisses my ankles, my calves, his lips a trail of fire that moves up my legs.
He reaches my core, and I am now the center of their universe. Kaelen fills my front, his rhythm a slow, sacred dance. Zahir fills my back, his rhythm a savage, driving beat. And Varos… Varos kneels before me, his forked tongue a masterful, exquisite instrument of pleasure. He laves my clit, already exquisitely sensitized by Zahir’s rough fingers, with a skill and a precision that is both breathtaking and utterly devastating.
“You will feel nothing but pleasure, Amara,” he commands, his voice a low, hypnotic whisper against my slick flesh. “You will forget the pain. You will forget the fear. There is only this. Only us.”
His lower shaft, barbed and thick, joins the assault, rubbing against my entrance in a perfect, maddening rhythm with his tongue. I am coming undone. The world dissolves into a maelstrom of sensation. The cool, smooth scales of Kaelen. The hot, rough strength of Zahir. The cold, precise mastery of Varos.
“Look at me,” Varos commands, his voice a silken whip. I open my eyes, my vision blurry with tears of pleasure. He is watching me, his golden eyes blazing with a fierce, triumphant love. “You are the soul of this kingdom, Amara. And you are the essence of us. We are nothing without you.”
He uses his upper shaft to enter my mouth, a final, absolute act of possession that is not a violation, but a coronation. I take him, my body now a willing, eager vessel for their shared love.
The pleasure builds, a relentless, coiling serpent of fire and light and soul. It is too much. It is everything. I am being torn apart and put back together, remade in the crucible of their love.
“Please,” I sob, the word a prayer, a plea, a command.
They answer as one. Kaelen’s rhythm deepens, a soulful, spiritual pulse. Zahir’s thrusts become a savage, frantic beat,a desperate, final claiming. And Varos’s mouth, his hands, his entire being, focuses on my pleasure with the single-minded intensity of a king conquering his most beloved territory.
I shatter. My body convulses, a violent, endless wave of pure, absolute release that tears a scream from my throat, a sound of such profound, soul-deep pleasure it seems to shake the very foundations of the palace.
My climax triggers theirs. I feel Kaelen’s release, a warm, pulsing wave of pure, spiritual energy. I feel Zahir’s, a hot, flooding torrent of raw, primal life. And I feel Varos’s, a powerful, shuddering surrender that is the most honest thing I have ever known from him.
The world slowly, slowly, comes back into focus. I am a boneless, trembling wreck, cradled in the arms of my three mates. Zahir’s chest is a solid wall at my back, his heart a thunderous beat against my skin. Kaelen’s head is resting on my shoulder, his breath a soft, warm puff against my neck. And Varos is kneeling before me, his forehead resting on my knee, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his release.
The silence that falls is not empty. It is full. It is full of the scent of our love, of the sound of our shared breaths, of the profound, unbreakable truth of our shared souls.
“Our mate,” Zahir growls, a low, possessive rumble that vibrates through my entire body.
“Our queen,” Varos whispers, his voice a raw, broken thing against my skin.
“Our eternity,” Kaelen breathes, his lips brushing against my ear.
I look from one to the other, at these three beautiful, terrible, and utterly devoted serpents who have laid their world, their hearts, their very souls at my feet. The last of my fear, my doubt, my brokenness, dissolves into nothing.
I am not a captive. I am not a pet. I am not a prophecy.
I am the heart of Nagaland. And I am finally, truly, irrevocably, home.
AMARA
ONE YEAR LATER
The garden is no longer silent. It breathes. A year ago, this was a place of cold, sterile beauty, a collection of soulless, perfect plants. Now, it is a riot of life, a beautiful, chaotic tangle of two worlds. The skeletal, black-leaved trees of Nagaland now share the soil with the white-barked birches of my lost home, their leaves a vibrant, impossible green against the crimson sand. The air is no longer just the spicy scent of blue-barked trees; it is sweetened with the familiar, comforting perfume of the wild roses Kia helped me plant, their petals a defiant, gentle pink in this world of jewel-toned predators.
I trail my hand over the low stone wall that borders the path, my fingers tracing the familiar, rough texture. My other hand rests on the gentle, pronounced swell of my belly, a constant, living reminder of the impossible truth of my new life. A life stirs within me, a tiny, fluttering kick against my palm. A life forged from ice, and fire, and starlight, and a single, human heart.
A warm, heavy weight settles on my shoulders, a familiar crimson cloak of muscle and possessive heat. Zahir. He does not speak, but his presence is a language all its own. His arm wraps around my waist, his massive, calloused hand coming torest over mine on my belly. His touch is no longer a brand of ownership, but a fierce, protective shield.
“He is restless today,” Zahir growls, his voice a low, rumbling thunder against my ear. His chin rests on my shoulder, his fangs gently grazing the sensitive skin of my neck. It is a gesture that once would have sent a shiver of pure terror through me. Now, it is just… Zahir. My Zahir.
“She,” I correct him gently, a soft smile touching my lips. “Kaelen says she has a warrior’s spirit.”
“She will have her father’s strength,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my skin, and I know he does not mean himself. He means all of them.
A shadow falls over us, and a cool, smooth hand takes my free one. Varos. He stands before me, no longer just a king, but my king. The cold, aristocratic mask is gone, replaced by a soft, profound tenderness that still, after all this time, makes my heart ache. His golden scales shimmer in the afternoon sun, and his eyes, once chips of ice, are now pools of molten gold, filled with a love so vast it is almost a tangible thing.
“A warrior’s spirit will serve her well,” he says, his voice the low, melodic baritone that haunts my dreams. “But she will have her mother’s heart. That is a far greater weapon.” He lifts my hand to his lips, his kiss a soft, reverent pressure against my knuckles.
