Page 14 of Warlord’s Plaything
14
XYRON
H ira is dragged before me, bleeding and defiant.
Her wrists are bound with iron, her hair tangled from the fight, dried blood smearing the curve of her throat.
And fuck me—she looks like something out of a war god’s dream.
Bruised, battered, but still standing. Still looking at me like she owns the fucking ground she bleeds on.
The guards shove her forward.
She doesn’t stumble.
Of course, she doesn’t.
Even after that fucking disaster she led, she’s still fighting.
Still daring me to break her.
And I—I’m so fucking tired of wanting her.
"Leave."
The word slices the air.
The guards hesitate.
They think I mean them.
But my gaze is locked onto hers.
Hira lifts a brow.
"Oh?" she purrs, licking a cracked lip. "Finally tired of an audience?"
The breath in my lungs turns to fire.
I grip the edges of my desk, forcing myself to stay fucking still.
"Go," I growl, this time to the warriors in the room.
They shuffle out, not questioning it, not daring to linger.
The moment the door slams shut, the tension thickens, pulling taut like a noose.
"You’re bleeding."
It’s not a question.
Her lip curls like she doesn’t give a shit.
"So?"
I push off my desk, moving toward her, slow, controlled.
"So," I echo, "you should be dead."
A lesser human would be.
A lesser anything would be.
That fight she walked out of? Should’ve ripped her apart.
And yet—she’s still here.
Still standing.
Still looking at me like I’m the fucking problem.
"You think I don’t know what you’re doing?" I murmur.
She tilts her head, mocking curiosity.
"You’re gonna have to be more specific, warlord. I do a lot of things that piss you off."
I exhale slowly, dragging a hand down my face.
"You lost people tonight."
Something flickers in her gaze.
Anger.
Pain.
She masks it well, but not from me.
"That wasn’t a battle," I say, circling her now, slow like a predator closing in. "It was a massacre."
She doesn’t flinch.
But her jaw tightens.
Good.
Let her feel it.
Let her fucking remember.
"They knew you were coming, Hira."
Her breath shudders just slightly, a crack in her armor.
But then—she smirks. "What, feeling sorry for me now?"
"No."
I close the distance between us too fast.
Her breath catches.
Not in fear.
Not in submission.
But in something else.
"You’re getting reckless." My voice is low, dangerous. “ And it’s going to get you fucking killed."
She laughs. A sharp, breathless sound that scrapes along my spine. "Oh, don’t pretend you care."
My grip tightens around her chin.
Not hard enough to hurt.
Just enough to say—stop lying to both of us.
"If I didn’t care, you’d already be dead."
Her lashes flicker, but she doesn’t pull away.
Instead—she presses closer. "And here I thought you were just keeping me alive to watch me burn."
Fuck.
I should let her go but I tilt her chin higher. Her pulse hammers beneath my fingers. A slow, steady drumbeat. And fuck me, but I can’t decide if I want to listen to it or tear it apart.
"I don’t need to watch you burn." My voice is a whisper against her skin. "You’re already on fire."
Her breath stutters.
Her lips part.
And for a second—just a fucking second—She gazes at me like she’s falling into something neither of us are ready to name.
Then she moves. Fast.
Too fucking fast.
She twists, yanking her wrists free, shoving me back before I can stop her. The iron clangs to the floor. I step forward, heat lacing through my veins, but she’s already there, palm flattening against my chest, stopping me.
"I don’t need your fucking warnings," she breathes.
I exhale sharply.
"No," I murmur. "You need a fucking leash."
Her smirk returns. Dark. Wicked.
"Too bad," she murmurs. "No one’s ever been able to keep one on me."
It’s a war.
And the next time she pushes I won’t stop myself from pulling her under.