Page 2 of Warlord's Plaything

Then the world erupts.

Half the crowdboos, furious that they’ve lost their bets. The others—those sick fucks who enjoy watching me survive, who bet on me thriving, who see me as an investment—roar their approval.

The announcer barely contains his own shock."She lives again!"

My breathing is ragged. The heat of the fight is still pulsing through my blood. I am drenched in black, steaming gore, my muscles quivering, my chest rising and falling with each gulp of hot, tainted air.

And then I feel it.

His gaze is like a rope binding me.

Up in the noble’s box, shadowed by silk curtains and the eerie glow of the mage-lights, Lord Xyron watches me.

Not like the others.

Not with disgust. Not with casual cruelty.

No, his stare isdifferent.

Calculated. Intense. Possessive in a way that makes my skin tighten and my fists curl.

His eyes are a fucking trap—bright, hypnotic, waiting to devour.

Something dark slithers through me, unwanted. A heat low in my belly. A recognition that I don’tfucking wantbut can’t seem to shake.

Xyron.

The warlord of this hellhole. The cold, deadly second-in-command to his father, Xiva, head of House Herox.

Theheir to the very system that put me in chains.

My jaw clenches.

He’s never watched me like this before.

What the fuck does he want?

The announcer bellows again, but I barely hear him over the blood rushing in my ears.

Guards enter the pit, chain in hand.

Here we go.

The chain loops around my neck, the cold iron biting deep. The handler yanks hard enough to drag me off balance, and I nearly trip over the Direfang’s corpse.

The crowd laughs.

I snarl and yank against the hold, but the handler cuffs me across the face.

Pain explodes across my cheekbone, a metallic tang flooding my mouth. I stagger but don’t fall.

I won’t fucking fall.

My chest rises, falls. The crowd begins to lose interest.

But Xyron—he’s still watching.

I meet his gaze.

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