Page 29 of Warlord’s Plaything

29

HIRA

T he room isn’t cold.

But I’m shivering.

Not from fear. Not from exhaustion. Something else.

Something hotter. Something worse.

The firelight flickers against the walls, casting jagged shadows across obsidian and steel. The whiff of smoke and something darker—**Xyron’s scent—**fills the space.

I barely have time to turn before the doors slam shut behind him.

A sharp, deliberate sound. A declaration.

I don’t have to look at him to know he’s seething.

His presence crackles, heavier than I’ve ever felt it.

He’s not just angry.

He’s unraveling.

"You’re pacing."

His voice is a low, dark thing, curling inside me like a noose.

I don’t stop.

"So?"

"So it’s fucking irritating."

I whip around, eyes narrowing.

"Then leave."

I expect him to smirk. To play his usual game, to taunt and tease, to wield control like a sharpened blade.

But he doesn’t.

He just stares.

Something is wrong.

There’s a sharpness to him, something fractured beneath his control.

The air between us is thick, suffocating.

A battlefield before the first strike.

"What happened?" I demand.

"Nothing."

A lie.

I see it in the set of his jaw, the tension lining his shoulders, the way his fingers curl at his sides like he’s holding something back.

He looks like he wants to destroy something.

Or someone.

"You’re a terrible liar," I say, voice lower now.

I take a step forward. A test.

His eyes flash, tracking the movement like a predator watching prey.

My pulse pounds, traitorous and heavy.

"I don't have time for this," he mutters, turning away.

But I don’t let him.

I move without thinking, grabbing his wrist.

The moment I touch him—he moves.

I barely register the shift before my back is against the wall, his body caging mine in.

The breath punches from my lungs, and I curse myself for letting him do this again.

But I don’t push him away.

And that’s the real problem.

"You should be afraid of me."

His voice is a whisper of heat and steel against my throat.

"I’m not."

He doesn’t speak immediately.

Instead, his fingers skim down my jaw, tracing slow, deliberate paths like he’s committing me to memory.

His touch is fire and control and something else, something worse.

Something I want.

"You should be," he murmurs.

I swallow hard. Too hard.

"Why?"

His eyes burn into me.

"There’s no stopping now.”

The words land heavy, final.

Like a dagger pressed against my skin.

Like a warning.

Like a surrender.

I don’t want him to stop.

His breath ghosts over my lips, hot and uneven.

His fingers tighten around my wrists, holding me there, holding himself together.

Like he’s at war with himself.

Like he’s fighting the same fucking battle I am.

Like he wants me to be the one to break first.

I can’t.

I won’t.

This is the only war I know how to win.

"Then don’t."

I speak almost instinctively.

Before I can think.

Before I can remember all the reasons why this is a mistake.

Right now, I don’t care. I just want the war to end.

Then—he moves.

His mouth crashes against mine, teeth and heat and fucking ruin.

His grip tightens, demanding, consuming.

There’s no hesitation. No slow buildup, no tentative exploration.

We’ve been fighting this for too long.

Now, we just fucking burn.

His hands are rough, greedy, dragging me closer.

I don’t stop him.

I don’t want him to.

I need this. I need to feel something real.

And right now, he’s the only real thing left.

The kiss is messy, desperate.

He tastes like anger and need and something deeper, something darker.

Something that I don’t dare think about.

If I do, I’ll never walk away.

And I’m not sure I want to.

He pulls back, just enough for his breath to mingle with mine.

His eyes are wild, sharp, burning straight through me.

"This changes everything," he growls.

I grip his face forcefully.

"Good."

His hands are everywhere, tearing at my clothes, his touch leaving trails of fire in their wake. My own hands are just as desperate, clawing at his tunic, pulling it off to feel the warmth of his skin against mine.

He pins me to the wall, his body pressing into me, leaving no space between us.

His mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point, and I gasp, my head falling back against the stone. His hands slide down my sides, gripping my hips, lifting me until my legs wrap around his waist.

"Stop me, little warrior," he growls against my skin, his voice ragged. Instead, I tighten my hold on him, grabbing a fistful of his hair.

I don’t.

I can’t.

He carries me to the bed, his movements rough, urgent. But this time, there’s a deliberate slowness to his actions, as if he’s savoring every second, every reaction.

His hands grip me like he’s memorizing the feel of my body, his fingers pressing into my skin as if to leave permanent marks. My back hits the mattress, the sheets cool against my heated skin, but the contrast only heightens the fire building between us.

He kneels in between my legs, his eyes raking over my body like he’s mapping every curve, every scar, every imperfection. His gaze is possessive, hungry, but there’s something else there too—something raw, almost reverent.

It’s unnerving, how he can look at me like I’m both a prize and a prayer.

His hands start at my ankles, his touch feather-light as they glide up my legs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. When his fingers reach my thighs, he pauses, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin there, and I shiver, my breath hitching.

He smirks, that infuriating, knowing smirk, and leans down to press his lips to the inside of my knee.

"Xyron—" I start, but my voice falters as his mouth moves higher, his teeth grazing my skin in a way that makes me gasp.

"Patience," he murmurs against my thigh, his breath hot, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me.

I don’t want patience. I want him wild. Not this… slow and deliberate movements. It’s as if he’s making sure I’m real.

Branding me.

Taking my soul.

This is more dangerous than losing control.

A moan escapes my lips as he takes his time.

His lips and hands explore every inch of me as if he’s determined to drive me mad. His mouth finds the curve of my hip, his tongue flicking over the bone, and I arch into him, my fingers tangling in his hair.

He chuckles, the sound dark and satisfied, and moves lower, his breath hot against the most sensitive part of me, my wet cunt.

When his tongue finally touches my core, my body almost jolts as sparks fry my nerve endings. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, his mouth working with a precision that leaves me trembling, my hands clutching at the sheets. He’s relentless, his tongue circling, flicking, until I’m gasping, my hips moving against him of their own accord.

"Xyron, please—" I choke out, my voice breaking. “Fuck me.”

He pulls back, his eyes meeting mine, and the look on his face is enough to make my breath catch. He’s not smiling now. His expression is fierce, almost feral, as he moves up my body, his hands gripping my hips, his breath hot against my skin.

"Fuck you?" he growls, his voice rough, his eyes burning into mine.

I don’t hesitate. "Yes."

He doesn’t need more than that. He brushes his cock against my cunt, then he enters me in one swift motion. I cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders.

He pauses, his breath ragged, his forehead pressed to mine, and for a moment, we’re both still, caught in the intensity of the connection.

Then he moves, slow at first, each thrust calculated, each one drawing a gasp from my lips. His hands grip my hips, holding me in place as he sets a rhythm that’s both punishing and perfect.

I can feel every inch of him, every movement, and it’s overwhelming, the way he consumes me, body and soul.

His mouth finds mine again, his kiss desperate, hungry, as if he’s trying to consume me whole. I kiss him back with equal fervor, my hands roaming over his body, feeling the way his muscles tense and release with every movement.

“Little warrior, I want to fill you so deep, you don’t know where I end and started,” he whispers in my ears, biting and sucking the sensitive spot.

“Oh…” I moan, trembling and moving to meet his hips. “Fuck me, take me then. Harder.”

As if hearing the pleading and desperation in my voice, his movements grow more frantic, more desperate, each thrust a declaration, a promise, a surrender.

I can feel him losing control, feel the moment he breaks, and it sends me spiraling over the edge with him.

The climax hits me like a tidal wave, crashing over me, pulling me under. I scream his name, every nerve alight, every thought obliterated.

He follows me over the edge, his movements stuttering, his breath ragged against my skin as he spills himself inside me.

When it’s over, we’re both breathless, trembling, ruined.

He collapses beside me, his chest heaving, his eyes still burning with that same intensity. His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining, and nobody speaks.

We don’t need to.