Malikor
The scent of her reaches me long before the whispers of her footsteps on the stone floor. Wild and sweet, like rain-slicked honey. My tongue flicks out, tasting her essence in the air, and my scales ripple with anticipation.
Endless days in this iron womb. Endless nights of Thorne’s cruelty. The searing burns, the jagged cuts, the merciless harvesting of flesh and scale. I answered only with silence and smoldering rage.
But fragile human with her golden hair and eyes the color of molten amber... she is different.
I coil tighter, pressing myself against the shadows of my prison. My bronze scales, once gleaming, are now dull with dried blood and the indignity of captivity. Each gouge where Thorne’s men pried away my scales throbs with aching defiance. Yet I stay motionless, savoring the moment.
Her scent intensifies, flooding my senses until I can taste her on my tongue: sweet, wild, and terrified.
A groan of metal. The chamber door swings open. There she stands, clutching a wobbly tray, her slender frame tense as a drawn bow. Her eyes flicker to my prison, then quickly away, as if the mere sight of me burns.
I unfurl my tongue again, drawing in the bitter tang of her fear, and beneath it, that intoxicating feminine essence that claws at my reason. My heart hammers in my ribs like a war drum.
She steps forward with trembling grace, each footfall a confession of dread. Her pulse throbs at her throat in frantic beats, a wounded sparrow trapped behind glass.
“I brought you some food,” she whispers, voice quivering on the edge of a sob.
I watch her through half-shadowed lids, each breath measured, each heartbeat a promise of violence. She believes me monstrous. She is right.
The female crouches, her wide eyes never leaving mine. There is terror there, yes, but also something else. A flicker of sympathy I do not want. I need no human’s compassion. Yet I find myself drawn to that softness in her gaze.
She sets the tray near the bars: a shard of stale bread, a bowl of thin, lukewarm broth. Sustenance to keep me broken. Like always, her hand darts into her pocket, eyes flicking toward the door.
From trembling fingers tumbles strips of dried meat and an apple, placed hastily on the tray before being pushed under the bars. The secret offering disappears into the shadows as I inhale it all. The coppery reek of my own blood now mingled with the sweetness of her defiance.
What she does not know is that I have been ready for this moment. My claw has worked at the lock for hours, wearing away at the mechanism until it finally yielded. I have been waiting only for her.
I cannot explain this pull roaring through my veins, this need to possess her. But I know with brutal clarity that I will not leave this place without her.
She begins to rise, still maintaining that fearful eye contact, when I make my move. The cage door swings open with a quiet creak, and before she can draw breath to scream, I surge forward, my coils unravel in a lethal surge.
My arm snakes around her waist, pulling her against my chest. Her body is warm and pliant against me. Her scent envelops me completely now. I taste the tremor of her fear. A salty, sweet panic that floods my senses. Intoxicating.
“Please,” she stammers. “Don’t—please don’t hurt me.”
I lower my face to hers, my tongue flicking out to taste the salt of her fear on her skin. My voice, unused for days, comes out as a rough caress. “Pain is not what I have in mind, lovely.”
Her eyes widen, pupils dilating in alarm. Or is it something else? I tighten my hold, feeling her softness yield against the hard planes of my torso. Escape is my priority, yes. But this fragile creature with her wild-honey scent... she is coming with me.
An enemy to lovers naga romance.