Page 10 of Warlord's Plaything

"Thought you nobles didn’t like to get your hands dirty," she drawls, but there’s a keen edge beneath her sarcasm, her body thrumming with restless energy.

I chuckle. "We don’t. But I make exceptions for interesting things."

Her nostrils flare.

"Come now, Hira." I tilt my head. "You survived the Direfang. You must bedyingto test yourself against something smarter than a beast."

Her jaw locks.

I can see the internal war happening behind those wild, feral eyes—pride warring with rage, defiance tangled with something darker.

Something that wants the fight just as much as I do.

She lunges.

I dodge the first strike easily, pivoting just out of reach as she swings fast, efficient, controlled.

No hesitation.

No fear.

Her fist whistles past my cheek, a fraction too slow.

I grab her wrist.

Twist.

She moves with it—instead of fighting the hold, she turns, using the momentum to throw her weight into a kick aimed at my ribs.

Better.

I block, catching her ankle mid-air, feeling the strength in her legs, the power coiled beneath her skin.

"Good," I murmur. "Again."

She snarls—fucking snarls—and wrenches herself free, coming at me harder, faster.

It’s beautiful.

The way she moves—all instinct and raw fury, no hesitation, no wasted motion. A blade honed against stone.

I let her get close this time.

Let her feel the edge of victory before I rip it away.

She slams her elbow toward my throat. I catch it just before impact, twisting her arm behind her back in one fluid motion.

A sharp gasp escapes her lips as her back presses flush against my chest, pinned.

The scent of her—spiced sweat, the lingering iron of blood, the faintest fucking hint of something softer underneath—curls in my lungs like smoke.

She’s breathing hard.

So am I.

I don’t let go.

Her pulse thrums against my fingers, wild and erratic, betraying her.

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