Page 38 of Warlord’s Plaything

38

XYRON

T he dungeon is silent.

Not the kind of silence that means peace—no, this is something worse.

This is the silence of the hunted.

Of the soon-to-be-dead.

The walls around me are damp, suffocating, carved from stone that has seen the slow decay of a thousand men before me.

Tomorrow, I join them.

Tomorrow, I die.

I breathe in, slow, steady. Preparing.

I will not beg.

I will not kneel.

They can strip me of my title, of my strength, of my throne.

But they will not strip me of who I am.

And yet?—

I still think of her.

I hate that she is my last thought.

I hate that I can still feel her hands on me, the way she broke apart beneath me, the way she clawed at my skin like she was afraid to lose me.

I hate that I still want her.

Even when I think she has already made her choice.

Even when I think she has already left me behind.

A shadow moves in the dark.

My muscles tense.

Footsteps, soft against the stone, too careful to belong to a guard.

A whisper of fabric, the subtle shift of movement—and then I catch the scent.

Wild. Smoky. Hers.

My pulse slams against my ribs.

And then she’s there.

Hira.

"You’re real," I murmur.

For a moment, I think I might be hallucinating.

I’ve imagined her so many fucking times in this cell, pictured her in a hundred different ways—a traitor, a ghost, a curse that will never leave me.

But now, she is none of those things.

Now, she is real.

Here.

Mine.

"You think I’d let you die alone?" Her voice is low, ragged.

I can barely see her face in the dim light, but her eyes—those fucking eyes—are locked on mine like I’m the only thing left in this godforsaken world.

I breathe in.

"You came back."

She exhales sharply, something between a curse and a confession.

"I never left."

And then she moves.

Her hands are on my face, gripping me like she’s afraid I’ll fucking vanish.

I barely have time to think, to understand, before her lips are on mine.

There is nothing soft about it.

Nothing careful.

Nothing held back.

It is war.

It is desperation.

It is a goddamn battlefield of need and fury and regret and longing.

Her fingers tangle in my hair, yanking, pulling, forcing me closer even though we are already as close as we can fucking be.

My chains rattle between us, a cruel reminder of my reality.

But I stop caring.

Not when she’s here.

Not when she’s burning for me the way I burn for her.

I flip her, slam her against the wall, press my body into hers until she gasps.

"I thought you betrayed me."

The words are a growl, guttural, ripped from the darkest parts of me.

Her breath shudders.

Her fingers tighten, nails biting deep into my back, through the torn remnants of my shirt.

"I thought I’d never see you again."

And fuck, that does something to me.

If she is lying, she is doing it with every inch of her body pressed against mine.

And if she is telling the truth?—

I might break.

"You should hate me." Her voice is a whisper, her lips against my jaw, my throat.

"I do." I bite back, but my hands say otherwise, my fingers tightening around her waist, dragging her closer.

"Then why are you shaking?"

I don’t fucking know.

What I know is this might be the end of us.

And if I die tomorrow, I am taking this.

I am taking her.

One last time.

The tension snaps.

Everything turns violent, raw, unbearable.

She moves against me like she’s trying to carve herself into my bones, like she wants me to feel her long after I’m gone. Her hands are everywhere—tangling in my hair, clawing at my chest, gripping my chains like they’re the only thing tethering us to this land.

I need her like I need air, like I need the fight, like I need the fucking war that’s always raging inside me.

Her lips crash into mine, and it’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. Teeth clash, tongues war, and the taste of her is fire and salt and something darker, something that feels like forever for as long as this lasts. Her nails tighten its hold on my shoulders, drawing blood, and I growl, low and feral, into her mouth.

She pulls back just enough to tear at my tunic, her hands rough, desperate, as if she’s afraid I’ll disappear before she can get to me. The fabric rips, and her palms flatten against my chest, her touch searing even through the grime and sweat of the dungeon.

"Xyron," she breathes, my name a curse, a prayer, a plea.

A rock lodges in my throat, preventing me from speaking. I can’t speak.

Instead, I spin her, pinning her against the almost freezing stone wall, my body pressing into hers until there’s no space left between us.

Her breath hitches, and I feel the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath my lips as I trail them down her collarbone, biting, sucking, marking her as mine.

Her hands fist in my hair, yanking my head back, forcing me to look at her. Her eyes are wild, burning with a hunger that mirrors my own.

"You didn’t betray me," I growl, my voice deep, guttural, as my hands slide down her sides, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.

She doesn’t answer with words. Instead, she shoves me back, her hands shoving at my chest until I’m the one against the wall. Her eyes never leave mine as she drops to her knees, her fingers working at the fastenings of my pants with a precision that makes my blood roar in my ears.

When she takes me into her mouth, I swear. “Fuck, little warrior. What are you doing? Gods!”

The sound echoes off the stone walls, and I don’t care who hears. Her tongue is wicked, her lips relentless, and I can’t stop the way my hips jerk, the way my hands fist in her hair, holding her there even as I try to pull her off.

"Hira—" I choke out, my voice breaking.

She doesn’t stop. If anything, she takes me deeper, her throat working around me, her nails digging into my thighs. I’m losing control, my vision blurring, my breath coming in ragged gasps, and I know I can’t last.

I yank her up, my hands rough, my movements frantic. Her back hits the wall again, and I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist, her pussy pressing against my cock.

"Now," she demands, her voice a soft whisper, her nails scoring down my back.

I don’t need to be told twice.

I push inside her in one brutal thrust, and she cries out, her head falling back against the stone. Her body clenches around me, tight and hot and perfect.

“Hira, you fit me so good…” I moan. “You’re my warrior…”

I don’t go slow. My move becomes relentless, without rhythm.

This isn’t about tenderness. It’s about possession. It’s about desperation.

It’s about the fucking fire that’s always burned between us, hotter than any war, any betrayal, any death sentence.

Her nails sink into my shoulders, her breath coming in sharp, broken gasps as I move, each thrust driving her harder into the wall. Her legs tighten around me, her hips meeting mine with a desperation that matches my own.

"Say it," I growl, my voice rumbling from my chest, my breath hot against her ear.

"I’m your warrior," she gasps, the words torn from her.

"Again."

"I’m yours."

Her voice breaks on the last word, and I feel her shatter around me, her body trembling, her nails digging deeper into my skin. I follow her over the cliffe, my movements growing frantic, my release crashing through me like a hurricane.

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

She collapses against me, her forehead pressed to my chest, her breath warm against my skin.

Time blurs.

I don’t know how long we stay like this—tangled, burning, consuming.

But I know this.

She didn’t betray me.

She wouldn’t.

This is not the touch of a woman who has given up on me.

This is not the mouth of someone who has chosen another.

This is mine.

And if I die tomorrow, I will die knowing that.

I will die knowing she is still mine. Even if it fucking destroys me.