Page 3 of Warlord’s Plaything

3

HIRA

T he smell of him clings to my skin.

Something sharp. Spiced wine and steel, the bitter bite of magic curling in the air.

Even though he’s gone, the room still feels like him. Still suffocates me with his fucking presence, like his gaze has been burned into the air itself. I sit there, spine straight, wrists still raw from the shackles, and try to pretend I don’t feel his touch lingering at my throat, at my pulse.

He touched me.

Not in anger. Not in punishment.

In curiosity.

That should terrify me more than anything else.

I should be afraid—terrified that a creature like him sees me as more than a slave, that his gaze lingers too long, that he speaks to me like I’m something worth figuring out .

If he’s curious, he won’t leave me alone.

And if he doesn’t leave me alone, he’ll find out the truth.

I should be in the slave pits.

Instead, I’m here . Right where he left me. And I don’t know why.

A lavish chamber, too big, too rich, too fucking wrong —filled with opulence I’ve never known, dark silks and polished steel, obsidian floors that catch the flickering light of enchanted sconces. The air is cooler here, perfumed, and I hate it.

The bath is steaming when the servants lead me toward it.

I should fight.

I should spit and snarl and make them drag me in kicking—but that would be exactly what Xyron expects.

So I do the opposite.

I let them undress me.

Let them peel away the tattered rags of my gladiator’s armor, exposing the bruises, the cuts, the scars. Let them guide me into the heated, dark-water bath, the temperature a sharp contrast to my fevered skin.

I don’t flinch when their fingers work through my tangled hair, cleaning away blood and sand, stripping me of the last remnants of the arena. I don’t move when their hands trail over my back, my thighs, washing away filth like I’m a thing being polished for display.

I just sit there, staring at the flickering light above me, imagining all the ways I’d gut Xyron fucking Herox if I got the chance.

I don’t know how much time passes before they dress me.

The gown is dark, made of something thin and silky that clings indecently to my body.

No armor.

No protection.

Just bare skin and silk and the humiliating knowledge that I’ve been put in something meant to make me look... appealing.

My fists clench at my sides.

If they think this will make me bend to him, they don’t know what the hell they’ve brought into this cage.

They leave me waiting.

Sitting on a bed too soft, surrounded by luxury too cruel, draped in a dress meant for something owned, something claimed.

I hate this more than the pits.

More than the sand and the blood and the taste of death on my tongue.

I can’t fight. Controlled. Powerless.

Here, I am helpless.

And that’s the worst fucking feeling in the world.

I don’t know how long I sit there before the door opens.

Before I feel him enter.

Xyron moves through the space like he owns it.

This isn’t just a room. It’s his lair. His fucking throne, wrapped in silk and scented oils, dressed in elegance to hide the beast that truly lurks here.

His eyes flick over me, taking in the sight of me bathed, dressed, waiting.

And fuck him, but he looks... satisfied.

Not surprised.

Like he expected me to be here, ready for whatever game he wants to play.

I don’t stand.

Don’t kneel.

Just watch him with barely restrained fury, curling my nails into my palms, feeling the sharp burn of crescent moons digging into my flesh.

"You clean up well," he says, voice smooth as midnight, rich with something that makes my skin prickle.

I roll my shoulders. "If you brought me here to dress me up like a doll, I think I’d rather take my chances bleeding out in the sand."

His lips twitch.

"Do you really think I went through all that trouble just to admire you?"

I say nothing. What does he really want from me?

And that’s the problem.

Xyron is too careful. Too fucking measured. He doesn’t beat his slaves. Doesn’t bark orders. Doesn’t play with his food the way the others do.

He watches.

He studies.

Like a hunter waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

And I don’t know why .

What does he even see in me? Fuck it.

"Why did you bring me here?" I ask, voice sharp, nails biting deeper into my palm. "You could’ve let them toss me back into the pits."

He moves closer.

The heat of him brushes against my skin, and I fucking hate it—that my body notices his proximity before my mind does, that the air between us goes taut, humming with something ugly and raw.

Something twisted.

"You interest me."

I snort. "Yeah? And what do you do to the things that interest you, my lord ?"

He raises his head.

"Would you like to find out?"

There’s a threat in his voice.

A promise.

And my pulse skips .

I know what kind of male he is.

The kind who takes.

The kind who doesn’t fucking ask.

So when I lift my chin, meet his golden stare with a glare made of steel and fire, and whisper, "Try me, warlord,"

I’m half expecting him to snap.

For his control to shatter.

For him to grab me by the throat, shove me into the silk and the softness, and remind me who fucking owns this world.

But he doesn’t.

He just watches me.

Smirks.

And says, low and dark?—

"Soon."

Then he’s gone, leaving me in this damned cage, burning with hate, rage?—

—and something far more dangerous.