Page 11 of Warlord's Plaything

"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 fuckingdareher.

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.

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