Page 20 of Warlord’s Plaything

20

HIRA

I wake to the smell of him.

Not just the lingering spice of his skin, the stench of steel and war and something darker.

But him.

His presence.

His weight in the air, heavy as a storm rolling in.

I don’t need to open my eyes to know he’s watching me.

I can feel it.

Like a blade at my throat. Like a brand against my skin.

My body aches.

Every muscle, every bruise, every reminder of the battle lost, the rebellion crushed, the moment I let him fucking take me.

The silk sheets beneath me feel too soft, too wrong.

I don’t belong here.

Not in this bed.

Not in this world.

And yet?—

Here I fucking am.

"You’re awake."

His voice is smooth, dark, edged with something that we both don’t want to delve into.

I force my breath steady, keeping my face blank as I slowly turn my head toward him. Xyron is leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes burning like embers in the dim light. He looks too at ease. Too in control.

"Was I supposed to stay unconscious?" I bite out, pushing up onto my elbows.

The sheets slide down my bare skin. His gaze flicks downward—just for a second. But I see it. Feel it. Like a pulse of heat between us. Like a match held too close to dry kindling. I clutch the sheets tighter.

His mouth curves. "Shy now, little warrior?"

The way he says it—mocking, taunting—makes my blood boil.

"You think you know me, warlord?" I sneer.

"I know exactly what you are."

His voice is so fucking sure. Like he sees something in me that even I don’t.

And that pisses me off more than anything.

I don’t think.

I just lunge.

A blur of movement, silk sheets forgotten, my hands aiming for his throat.

He catches me.

Like he was waiting.

Like he knew I’d fucking try.

The impact slams me against the wall.

His body—**solid, unrelenting—**pins me there before I can twist away.

My pulse spikes, sharp and violent.

Not in fear.

Never fucking fear.

But in something worse.

Something I refuse to name.

His breath is hot against my jaw.

"That was cute," he murmurs, voice a mockery of amusement. "Try again?"

I snarl, twisting, trying to break free, but his grip tightens.

His fingers are bruising against my wrists.

His legs cage mine in place.

And fuck—I hate this.

Hate how fucking strong he is.

Hate how my body reacts to it.

"Let me go," I snap.

"No."

One word.

A fucking death sentence.

I lash out again, but it’s not just rage anymore.

It’s frustration. Heat. A battle neither of us want to end.

And he—he just fucking grins.

Like he’s enjoying this.

Like he likes the way I fight him.

He does.

He always has.

His mouth brushes against my ear.

Not a kiss.

A taunt. A warning. A promise.

"I could break you so easily, Hira."

My chest heaves.

"You keep saying that." My voice is hoarse, raw, filled with something I can’t fucking name. "But I’m still standing."

He laughs.

Low. Dark. Dangerous.

"Not for long."

The room is too hot.

Too small.

Too filled with tension we both don’t want to delve into.

My nails dig into his skin.

His hands tighten around me. And the, just as suddenly, he lets me go.

Just like that.

One second I’m trapped between him and the wall.

The next, I’m stumbling forward, breathless, fucking furious.

I turn, ready to lunge again, ready to fucking tear into him, but he’s already walking away.

"You want me to fight?" My voice is shaking with rage. "You want me to fucking submit?"

He pauses.

Glances over his shoulder.

His smile is slow. Lethal. "I already won, Hira. You just haven’t figured it out yet."

The door shuts behind him. The air is still thick, still electric, still fucking suffocating. I stagger back, pressing a hand to my chest, my heart slamming against my ribs like a war drum.

I don’t know who I hate more right now.

Him.

Or myself.

For wanting this war to never fucking end.