Page 24 of Warlord’s Plaything
24
XYRON
T he grand hall of House Herox is drenched in decadence, laced with poison.
The aroma of aged wine and burning incense hangs thick in the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation. Dark elves, highborns, and political snakes dressed in their most opulent deception move through the space with practiced ease, each step a calculated maneuver.
This is not a gathering.
It’s a fucking war field in silk.
And tonight, I play the game.
My eyes sweep the room, scanning the faces that watch me too closely. Some hide their intent behind polite smiles, some don’t bother at all. Valis is among them, smirking into his goblet. Kaelith stands near the council’s inner circle, speaking in low tones to one of the war strategists.
They’re waiting.
For me to make a mistake.
For me to prove that I am slipping.
For me to show that I am no longer the untouchable warlord they fear.
They think they see cracks.
They think they smell blood.
They think wrong.
"She doesn’t belong here."
A whisper, low and scathing, reaches my ears.
A noble, one of the lesser lords, sneering toward the far side of the room.
My gaze follows his line of sight.
And then I see her.
Hira.
She stands near the balcony, shoulders squared, head high, body wrapped in a dress far too elegant for the bloodthirsty creature inside it.
The dark fabric clings to her in ways that should be illegal, the deep slit along her leg exposing bronzed skin and battle scars. Her hair is braided back, but loose strands fall along her face, wild and untamed, just like her.
She looks like she wants to rip the dress off.
Like she wants to burn this whole place down.
Like she is still a caged beast, aching to taste blood.
Fuck.
"What is she?" The noble sneers, swirling his goblet. "A pet? A plaything? A trophy from your little rebellion?"
My fingers twitch around my own glass.
I shouldn’t react.
I should let the insult slide, let the fool believe his words mean something.
But I don’t.
There is no word for what she is to me.
No label that fits.
And that fucking infuriates me.
Instead, I smile. "You have a death wish, Lord Vexis?"
His smirk falters, just slightly. "I’m merely stating the obvious, warlord."
I take a casual sip of my wine, then step closer. "Then let me be clear." I let the silence drag, thick and weighted. "The next time you speak of what’s mine— " I tilt my head, voice dropping to a whisper. "I’ll make sure you don’t have a tongue to do it with."
His throat bobs.
Hira hasn’t seen me yet.
She stands near the railing, looking down below, lost in thought.
But I see the tension in her spine.
She knows I’m here.
She always does.
And fuck me, I love that.
"You’re uncomfortable."
I come up behind her, feeling the heat of her skin, but not touching. She doesn’t flinch. I’m mesmerized by the way her breath slows. She doesn’t turn.
"You put me in a fucking dress," she mutters. "What did you expect?"
I chuckle. "You look good in it."
Her jaw tightens. "Fuck you."
"You already have."
She spins to face me, eyes flashing, teeth bared.
Perfect.
I drag my gaze over her, slow, taunting. "You should be thanking me, little warrior."
"For what?"
I lean in, just enough for my breath to brush her ear. "For making sure every man in this room knows exactly who you belong to."
Her fingers curl at her sides, tight enough to crack stone. "I don’t belong to you, warlord."
"No?" I reach out, brushing my knuckles down the bare skin of her arm.
She shudders. Not in fear. Not even fucking close.
"Then tell me," I murmur, lips just a breath away from hers. "Why do you let me touch you?"
She doesn’t answer. She can’t. Because we both know the truth.
And it’s killing her.
I hear the movement before I see it. A noble. A fucking idiot. He steps too close to her, too bold, reaching out as if she’s something to be touched. And before I even fucking think, I’m moving.
The next second, his wrist is in my grip. The next, it’s snapping. He screams, dropping to his knees, clutching the ruined limb. The room goes silent.
All eyes on me.
On us.
I barely look at him. I just stare at Hira.
"Touch what’s mine again, and I will carve the skin from your bones."
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. But I watch the way her pulse flutters against her throat. She hates how much she likes this. Hates how much I fucking know it.
"You’re a bastard." Her voice is breathless, edged with something dangerous.
I grin. "Thank you, sweetheart."
She steps back.
Before I can pull her in.
Before she lets herself break.
And I let her go.
This war between us?
It’s only just begun.