Page 23 of Warlord’s Plaything

23

HIRA

I am shaking.

Not from fear. Not from exhaustion.

From something worse.

From something I don’t understand.

I refused to understand.

The dungeons reek of blood and damp stone, the air thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and hopelessness. I can’t see them—**the others, my people—**but I know they’re here, buried deep in the pits beneath Xyron’s kingdom. Caged like animals, waiting for a master’s mercy.

And I am standing here, unbound, breathing clean air.

I am not a prisoner.

I am something worse.

A fucking bargaining chip.

His words still coil around me like a noose, each syllable tightening.

"At yours."

I feel it in my bones.

What he’s demanding.

The realization that this game was never about my people.

It’s about me.

How far I’ll go. How much I’ll take.

How long before I stop pretending I’m still fighting?

I pace the length of my chamber, my pulse hammering beneath my skin, hot and restless. The walls feel too tight, too close, like they’re pressing against me, whispering the truths I refuse to say aloud.

Xyron wants me to break.

He wants me to admit that this war is already lost, that I belong to him just as much as his blade, his fortress, his crown.

Some dark, primal thing inside me wants it too.

I slam my fist into the nearest pillar, the pain jolting through my knuckles, sharp enough to ground me, to keep me from unraveling. But it isn’t enough. It doesn’t burn the weakness out of me.

The heat is still there, crawling beneath my skin, simmering in my veins.

It’s been growing worse since the rebellion failed.

Since I was taken. Since I woke up with his scent in my lungs, his taste still on my fucking lips.

I should hate this feeling.

I do.

And yet?—

It doesn’t leave.

It doesn’t fucking leave.

I force myself to breathe, to shake the thoughts from my head. I need control, focus, a way to think past the constant pull inside me. I need to be ready, not restless.

Not this.

Not whatever the fuck I’m becoming.

The door creaks open.

I know who it is before I turn.

The air shifts, thickens.

His presence is huge, it dwarfs this big chamber, pressing into me like something physical.

I hate how easily I recognize it.

How my body registers his nearness before my mind can catch up.

Xyron doesn’t speak at first.

He just watches.

eyes burning into me, assessing, waiting.

For what?

For me to crack?

For me to fall apart in his hands?

Fuck him.

"What do you want?" My voice is rough, jagged at the edges.

His smirk is slow, deliberate. "You."

My stomach twists, heat flashing through my spine like a live wire.

I hate how easy it is for him.

How he can say one fucking word and make something inside me turn against itself.

"You can have my body, warlord." I step toward him, refusing to show hesitation. "But you will never have me."

He chuckles, the sound low, dark, and fucking knowing. "You say that, but your body begs to differ."

I strike before he can say another word.

Faster than I mean to. Faster than I should be able to. He blocks my attack, but his expression flickers, a shadow of surprise tightening his features.

He felt it, I know he did.

"What was that?" he murmurs, his grip tightening around my wrist.

My breath hitches.

"Nothing."

Liar.

His free hand moves, tracing along my jaw, his touch lighter than it should be. "You’re changing, little warrior."

I glare at him, even as my pulse betrays me, hammering like a war drum. "You don’t know shit about me."

"No?" His fingers curl beneath my chin, forcing me to look at him. "Then why do I feel it?"

I don’t know what he means.

I don’t want to.

If he can feel it—**this restless, burning thing inside me—**then I can’t pretend anymore.

I can’t pretend it’s just rage.

Just grief.

Just what he’s done to me.

It’s something else.

Something worse.

"You’re imagining things, warlord."

I shove away from him, turning my back before he can see the crack in my mask.

I need to breathe.

I need to get out of this room before I lose control.

I don’t see his expression, but I feel the shift in the air.

The knowing amusement.

The fucking certainty.

"You can say something else to yourself, lie all you want, Hira." His voice is quiet, too close, too fucking deep. "But you can’t lie to me."