Page 4 of Warlord’s Plaything

4

XYRON

I should have left her to rot in the pits.

I should have let her bleed out in the sand like all the other fucking slaves who think they can outlast the inevitable.

But I didn’t.

I let her live.

And now I can’t stop thinking about the way her pulse hammered beneath my fingers, how the fine tremor in her breath betrayed her even as she held my gaze like she wanted to burn me alive.

I haven’t touched her since.

Not yet.

But I will.

Not the way she expects—not with whips, not with shackles.

No, I want to pull her apart differently.

Piece by piece.

And it starts now.

The training grounds are carved into the very bones of my clan’s fortress—a pit of polished obsidian and iron, its surface worn smooth by centuries of combat. The air hums with the raw, electric tang of sweat and magic, torches casting jagged shadows against the stone.

The soldiers have cleared the floor, leaving the space empty except for her.

Hira.

Standing in the middle of the ring, barefoot, bare-handed, every inch of her taut with barely-leashed fury.

The bruises along her collarbone have begun to fade, but the fire in her eyes is brighter than ever.

She doesn’t know why she’s here yet.

Doesn’t know that I’m about to take this little game of ours to the next level.

I step into the pit, rolling my shoulders, loosening the tension coiled beneath my skin.

Her gaze snaps to me instantly, sharp as a blade.

The moment stretches, charged, humming with something just as deadly as combat—just as violent.

I smile.

Let’s see what she can really do.

“You’ve never fought a dark elf before, have you?" I ask, circling her slow, measured.

Her stance shifts subtly—feet bracing, weight balanced, hands loose but ready.

Smart.

Not smart enough.

"Thought you nobles didn’t like to get your hands dirty," she drawls, but there’s a keen edge beneath her sarcasm, her body thrumming with restless energy.

I chuckle. "We don’t. But I make exceptions for interesting things."

Her nostrils flare.

"Come now, Hira." I tilt my head. "You survived the Direfang. You must be dying to test yourself against something smarter than a beast."

Her jaw locks.

I can see the internal war happening behind those wild, feral eyes—pride warring with rage, defiance tangled with something darker.

Something that wants the fight just as much as I do.

She lunges.

I dodge the first strike easily, pivoting just out of reach as she swings fast, efficient, controlled.

No hesitation.

No fear.

Her fist whistles past my cheek, a fraction too slow.

I grab her wrist.

Twist.

She moves with it—instead of fighting the hold, she turns, using the momentum to throw her weight into a kick aimed at my ribs.

Better.

I block, catching her ankle mid-air, feeling the strength in her legs, the power coiled beneath her skin.

"Good," I murmur. "Again."

She snarls—fucking snarls—and wrenches herself free, coming at me harder, faster.

It’s beautiful.

The way she moves—all instinct and raw fury, no hesitation, no wasted motion. A blade honed against stone.

I let her get close this time.

Let her feel the edge of victory before I rip it away.

She slams her elbow toward my throat. I catch it just before impact, twisting her arm behind her back in one fluid motion.

A sharp gasp escapes her lips as her back presses flush against my chest, pinned.

The scent of her—spiced sweat, the lingering iron of blood, the faintest fucking hint of something softer underneath—curls in my lungs like smoke.

She’s breathing hard.

So am I.

I don’t let go.

Her pulse thrums against my fingers, wild and erratic, betraying her.

"Not bad," I murmur into her ear.

Her head jerks back—a sharp, brutal attempt to break my nose.

I dodge, laughing, the sound low and rough.

I release her just as quickly as I caught her, shoving her forward, making her stumble.

She turns, panting, furious, blazing.

"That all you got?" she spits, eyes alight with challenge.

Fuck.

I take a slow step toward her.

Then another.

Her breath catches.

Not in fear.

Not in submission.

In anticipation.

That deep, hidden part of her—the one she refuses to acknowledge—wants this fight just as much as I do.

And she hates herself for it.

I can taste it in the air between us.

A dark, twisted hunger.

A need to win.

To take.

To break.

And neither of us knows who the fuck will lose first.

I stop just inches from her.

Her fingers twitch, like she wants to strike again.

Like she wants me to fucking dare her.

I exhale slowly, feeling the sharp burn of my own control snapping at the edges.

I could end this here.

Could grab her.

Could shove her to the ground, into the dirt, into the fucking hunger burning in my veins.

Could make her see just how deeply this game is rigged against her.

But I don’t.

I don’t want a broken thing, a conquered thing, a weak thing.

I want her.

All of her.

Wild and untamed.

Sharp and angry and fucking vicious.

And the best part?

She doesn’t even know what the fuck she’s becoming yet.

So I do the worst thing I possibly can.

I step back.

Smile.

And say, low and deliberate?—

"Again."