Page 12 of Warlord's Plaything

I don’t want a broken thing, a conquered thing, a weak thing.

I want her.

All of her.

Wild and untamed.

Sharp andangry and fucking vicious.

And the best part?

She doesn’t even know what the fuck she’s becoming yet.

So I do the worst thing I possibly can.

I step back.

Smile.

And say, low and deliberate?—

"Again."

5

HIRA

My body hums with the aftermath of the fight.

I can still feel him.

The press of his fingers against my wrists, the hot breath against my ear, the strength of his body caging me in but never breaking me.

I should hate how much Iliked it.

How much it made my pulse pound, made my skin burn, made my body wake the fuck up in a way I haven’t felt in years.

I do hate it.

But gods help me—I want to do itagain.

The training grounds are empty now, the torches still flickering, the scent of sweat and blood still lingering in the thick, humid air. My muscles ache, my knuckles are bruised, and my heartbeat still hasn't fucking calmed down.

I roll my shoulders, ignoring the dull throb of pain as I stride back toward the slave pits—the underground cavernous cells where the gladiators are kept, where the smell of damp stone and rusted chains fill the air, where hope comes to die.

But tonight, something is different.

Something sharp is stirring beneath the surface, something restless, something that tastes like change.

The moment I step past the iron doors, I feel their eyes on me.

The other gladiators. The slaves.

Men and women hardened by war and survival, butchered in the pits for the amusement of the nobles.

They look at me like I’m something else now.

"Did you fuck him?"

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