Page 21 of Warlord’s Plaything
21
XYRON
T he training pit is silent, save for her breathing.
Low. Controlled. Measured.
But I hear the way it catches when I move.
See the way her fingers twitch around the hilt of her blade.
She’s trying so fucking hard not to react.
But I see it.
I feel it.
She’s still feeling me.
"You’re slow today, little warrior."
Maybe I tired her out last night. The idea makes satisfaction bloom inside me.
Hira’s jaw clenches.
Good.
She’s already losing.
Not just the fight—but herself.
She lashes out, fast, a flash of silver cutting toward my ribs.
I let her get close.
Too close.
Just enough for my breath to drag against her skin.
Just enough for her to remember. Then I catch her wrist, twist, and slam her against the wall.
Her body bows against mine.
Heat. Tension. Something worse.
She freezes for a fraction of a second.
And I use it.
Leaning in, pressing just enough for her to feel me, to remember how fucking deep I was inside her.
"You weren’t this weak last night."
Her snarl is instant.
She shoves back, but I don’t let her go.
I won’t.
Not when she still smells like me.
Not when I can still hear the way she moaned my name.
"Get off me, warlord."
"Why? Afraid?"
Her breath hitches.
Not fear.
Not even fucking close.
I dip my head, brush my lips against her ear.
Not a kiss.
A taunt. A reminder.
"You weren’t so shy when you were coming apart beneath me."
She lunges.
Pure instinct. Pure rage.
But I expect it.
I twist her, catching her from behind, pressing her into the wall.
Her pulse slams against my palm where I grip her throat.
She’s so fucking alive.
And I want her again.
"Let. Me. Go."
"Say please."
She snarls, thrashing against me, but I don’t move.
I can’t.
Because she’s under my skin, wrapped around my heart like a vice.
I have to remind myself why I haven’t already taken her again.
"You should be thanking me."
She goes still.
"For what?" she breathes, voice low, furious.
"For keeping you alive."
Her laughter is sharp, cruel. "Keeping me alive? You mean keeping me in your fucking bed?"
I smile against her skin. "You didn’t seem to mind last night."
She stiffens.
And fuck—there it is.
The thing she doesn’t want to admit.
That she liked it.
That she wants more.
Even if it’s killing her.
"I hate you."
Her whisper is so fucking quiet.
But I hear it.
I fucking feel it.
I believe her.
It doesn’t fucking matter.
I still want her anyway.
I let her go.
Slow. Deliberate.
Like it’s my choice, not hers.
She doesn’t move.
Doesn’t run.
Just stands there, breathing hard, hands shaking at her sides.
Like she’s realizing something too late.
Like she knows she’s already lost.
Not just to me.
To us.
"Again," I order, stepping back, rolling my shoulders.
She blinks, still caught in the moment.
"What?"
"Fight me again."
She hesitates.
And I smirk.
"Unless you need a moment to recover?"
Her eyes flash.
And I barely fucking dodge her next strike.