Page 69 of Warlord's Plaything

What he’s demanding.

The realization that this game was never about my people.

It’s about me.

How far I’ll go. How much I’ll take.

How long before I stop pretending I’m still fighting?

I pace the length of my chamber, my pulse hammering beneath my skin, hot and restless. The walls feel too tight, too close, like they’re pressing against me, whispering the truths I refuse to say aloud.

Xyron wants me to break.

He wants me to admit that this war is already lost, that I belong to him just as much as his blade, his fortress, his crown.

Some dark, primal thing inside me wants it too.

I slam my fist into the nearest pillar, the pain jolting through my knuckles, sharp enough to ground me, to keep me from unraveling. But it isn’t enough. It doesn’t burn the weakness out of me.

The heat is still there, crawling beneath my skin, simmering in my veins.

It’s been growing worse since the rebellion failed.

Since I was taken. Since I woke up with his scent in my lungs, his taste still on my fucking lips.

I should hate this feeling.

I do.

And yet?—

It doesn’t leave.

It doesn’t fucking leave.

I force myself to breathe, to shake the thoughts from my head. I need control, focus, a way to think past the constant pull inside me. I need to be ready, not restless.

Not this.

Not whatever the fuck I’m becoming.

The door creaks open.

I know who it is before I turn.

The air shifts, thickens.

His presence is huge, it dwarfs this big chamber, pressing into me like something physical.

I hate how easily I recognize it.

How my body registers his nearness before my mind can catch up.

Xyron doesn’t speak at first.

He just watches.

eyes burning into me, assessing, waiting.

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