Page 118 of Warlord's Plaything

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.

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