Page 31 of Warlord’s Plaything
31
HIRA
T he air still tastes of him.
Of fire and sweat. Of war and ruin.
Of the one thing I swore I would never fucking want.
And yet, I’m drenched in it.
Sore. Bruised. Marked.
Not just by his hands, but by the way he looked at me.
Like I was something more than a game.
Like I was something his.
Fuck.
I roll over in the massive bed, sheets tangled around my legs, my body aching in ways I don’t want to think about.
I can still feel him.
The phantom press of his fingers.
The imprint of his teeth against my throat.
The unspoken war in his eyes before he claimed me like a fucking conqueror.
I let him.
I fucking wanted it.
I opened myself to the enemy.
And now, I can’t take it back.
I exhale sharply, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes.
Get up. Get the fuck up, Hira.
I force myself to move, sitting up, gripping the edge of the silk-draped bed like it might ground me. But nothing feels real.
Not the soft flicker of firelight against the obsidian walls.
Not the lingering heat where he had pinned me, ruined me, left his fucking claim on me.
Not even the suffocating press of my own fucking thoughts.
I should have left.
I should have killed him the first time he touched me.
Instead—I let him crawl inside me, wrap himself around my gut like a sickness.
And now I can’t tell what burns more—my hatred or my fucking longing
The door slams open.
A half-dozen soldiers storm into the room, their boots heavy against the polished black floors.
Steel gleams in the torchlight.
I barely register the snap of movement before hands seize me, wrenching me forward.
I snarl, thrashing, instincts kicking in before my mind can process what’s happening.
"Get your fucking hands off me!"
The soldier behind me yanks hard, nearly dislocating my shoulder.
Another grabs my wrist, snapping cold metal around it.
"By order of the High Council, you are under arrest."
The words crack like a whip.
I freeze.
"What?"
The soldier grips my chin, forcing me to look up at him, his smirk twisting with mocking amusement.
"Lord Xyron has been taken into custody for the murder of his father."
The world lurches.
My lungs seize.
The air vanishes.
"Liar."
I don’t recognize my own voice.
It’s not rage. Not denial.
It’s a whisper of something worse.
Something close to fear.
The soldier sneers.
"You think he’d spare you? You think he was anything more than a fucking killer?"
I don’t blink.
I don’t breathe.
I can’t believe it.
Not Xyron.
Not the warlord who fought for his father’s respect, who stood at his side despite the vipers in the Council.
Not the man who, last night, had looked at me like I was the only thing anchoring him to this fucking world.
Not him.
"Bullshit," I snarl, voice steadier now.
I twist, lashing out.
A sharp crack—my knee slams into the soldier’s ribs.
He stumbles.
I grab his dagger—steel flashes in my hand.
Another lunges for me—I duck, strike, spin.
Blood sprays across the silk-draped bed.
Bodies crash to the ground.
I don’t stop.
I can’t fucking afford to stop.
The moment I stop, this nightmare becomes real.
And I’m not ready for that.
A sharp whistle cuts through the air.
Pain explodes through my scalp as a soldier rips me back by my hair.
I grunt, slashing wildly, but another soldier grabs my arm, twisting it until my joints scream.
"Enough!"
The grip tightens.
"You will come quietly, or I will carve the defiance from your fucking bones."
I snarl, spitting blood, heart pounding.
Quiet?
Never.
I snap my head back—bone meets flesh.
The soldier shouts, stumbling.
I tear free.
And I run.
My bare feet pound against the floor, cold and slick with spilled blood.
The hallways blur past me, a maze of shadowed corridors and flickering torchlight.
Shouts echo behind me.
But I don’t turn back.
Not for them.
Not for him.
Not for the fucking ache in my chest that I don’t have time to name.
I run.
The gilded halls fade, the polished obsidian giving way to rough-hewn tunnels.
I push deeper, down into the filth and heat of the pits, the stench of sweat and blood wrapping around me like a shroud. I stop only when my legs threaten to give out, my breath ragged, my pulse hammering against my ribs.
My hands tremble. I press my back against the stone wall, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to block out the words.
Xyron killed his father.
No.
Not him.
Not the warlord who had touched me like I was something sacred, even when he was ruining me.
Not the man who had whispered my name like it was the only truth left in this fucking world.
Not him.
Not him.
I force myself to breathe.
To think.
I’m not safe.
Not yet.
And I won’t be until I know the fucking truth.
If they’ve taken him—if they’ve truly framed him—then the real war is just beginning.
And I am not fucking losing.