Page 87 of Warlord's Plaything

He’s not just angry.

He’s unraveling.

"You’re pacing."

His voice is a low, dark thing, curling inside me like a noose.

I don’t stop.

"So?"

"So it’s fucking irritating."

I whip around, eyes narrowing.

"Then leave."

I expect him to smirk. To play his usual game, to taunt and tease, to wield control like a sharpened blade.

But he doesn’t.

He just stares.

Something is wrong.

There’s a sharpness to him, something fractured beneath his control.

The air between us is thick, suffocating.

A battlefield before the first strike.

"What happened?"I demand.

"Nothing."

A lie.

I see it in the set of his jaw, the tension lining his shoulders, the way his fingers curl at his sides like he’s holding something back.

He looks like he wants to destroy something.

Or someone.

"You’re a terrible liar,"I say, voice lower now.

I take a step forward. A test.

His eyes flash, tracking the movement like a predator watching prey.

My pulse pounds, traitorous and heavy.

"I don't have time for this,"he mutters, turning away.

But I don’t let him.

I move without thinking, grabbing his wrist.

The moment I touch him—he moves.

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