Page 9 of Warlord’s Plaything
9
HIRA
T he moment the heavy doors of his chamber slam shut, I know I’m fucked.
Not in the literal way—though from the way Xyron’s golden gaze burns into me, I’m not sure if that’s something he’s considering.
No, this is something worse.
Something more dangerous.
Something that thrums in the air between us, thick with the implications of what happened in the arena.
He should have struck me down in front of them all. He should have ended me.
Instead, he claimed me.
"She is mine to punish."
The words still coil inside my head like a slow-burning poison.
Mine.
The bastard thinks he owns me.
But he doesn’t know what to do with me.
The room is stiflingly quiet.
The only sound is the distant crackle of the firelight against the obsidian walls, the soft scrape of his boots as he moves toward me.
I don’t step back.
I refuse to.
I meet him head-on, chin tilted up, heartbeat a slow, steady drum against my ribs.
If he’s expecting fear, he’s going to be fucking disappointed.
Xyron stops a breath away.
His scent is everywhere—dark spice, clean steel, something faintly smoky and sharp.
I hate that it’s familiar now.
I hate that my body recognizes it before my mind does.
His gaze rakes over me. Slowly. Like he’s considering whether to devour or destroy.
His fingers twitch at his sides.
"You really don’t know when to quit," he murmurs, voice low, dangerous.
I smirk. "Neither do you, apparently. Otherwise, I’d be dead by now."
His lips curl.
"Is that what you want?" He raises his head. "To die?"
I lean in just enough to make the space between us tight, suffocating.
"You’d like that too much, wouldn’t you?"
A beat of silence.
Then, he laughs.
It’s not soft.
It’s dark, rough-edged, cruel.
And worse—it’s amused.
"Gods, you really are something," he breathes, shaking his head.
He moves before I can react—gripping my chin, tilting my face up to his.
Not gentle.
Not brutal.
Just enough to say: I could break you if I wanted to.
I don’t look away.
His thumb drags against my lower lip, slow, considering.
The heat coils low in my stomach, something wrong and unwanted and infuriating.
"You like testing limits," he murmurs.
His voice is softer now, but no less lethal.
I let my lips curl, parting them just slightly against his thumb, dragging my tongue against the pad of his finger.
Just to piss him off.
It works.
His pupils blow wide, his fingers tightening, just for a second.
Then he yanks away like I burned him.
"You’re making mistakes, Hira."
He moves, circling me now, slow, measured.
Like he’s studying a problem he hasn’t figured out how to solve yet.
"You think you can control this?" His voice is a slow drawl. "You think you can push me?"
I don’t have to answer.
We both know the truth.
I already fucking have.
Xyron exhales, long and slow, then gestures toward the room’s massive stone balcony, where the night air rolls in, cool and thick with the stench of burning torches from the lower pits.
"Come here," he orders.
I don’t move.
His gaze sharpens.
"That wasn’t a request, little warrior."
I should resist.
Should hold my ground.
But I don’t.
Not I obey him—never that.
I want to know what the fuck he’s playing at.
So I step forward, slow, deliberate, matching his unwavering stare.
The tension coils tight as I stop beside him, the cold stone railing pressing against my hands.
"Look," he says, nodding toward the lower courtyard.
I do.
And my stomach twists.
The gladiators are gathered below.
The ones who have been whispering in the dark. The ones I have been building something with.
They’re training.
At least, that’s what it looks like at first.
But I see it for what it really is.
A test.
Xyron is watching them.
Watching me.
He turns to me then, and the flickering torchlight makes his golden gaze look molten.
"You're not the first to try this, you know."
I stiffen.
He smiles, slow and sharp. "I could stop you right now. Have them all executed in the sand."
My pulse spikes.
He leans in. "But I won’t."
I grip the railing so hard my knuckles turn white.
"And why the fuck not?" I grind out.
His lips brush just close enough to feel.
"I want to see what you’ll do next."
If he thinks I’ll back down now… He doesn’t know me at all.