Page 15 of Warlord's Plaything

His lips curl.

"Am I interrupting something?"

The pit goessilent.

Fuckingperfect.

I let my mouth curl into a slow, sharp grin.

"Not at all, my lord."

6

XYRON

The air down here is thick. Wet with sweat, blood, and the stink of men who live on the edge of death.

The slave pits are cut deep beneath the fortress, a place carved into the very rock itself—a labyrinth of cells and training grounds where flesh is honed for slaughter.

I walk through the dim torchlight, my boots echoing against the ground as I move deeper, past the rows of cages, past the broken things waiting to die.

They watch me with dull, defeated eyes.

All except one.

Hira stands in the center of the chamber, flanked by her gladiators like a queen among the damned. No chains, no collar—just defiance wrapped in human skin.

The flickering light kisses the sweat on her collarbones, highlights the bruises along her arms. The silks I gave her are gone, replaced with worn leathers, battle-stained, blood-darkened.

She looks like a fucking war prize.

And she knows it.

"Am I interrupting something?"

The words drop like a blade, and the tension in the pit shifts.

The other fighters go still, their gazes flicking between me and her.

She doesn’t turn immediately. Instead, she lifts a water flask to her lips, drinks slowly, deliberately, letting a single drop roll down her throat.

Then, finally—she looks at me.

And godsdamn me, but that smirk is a dangerous fucking thing.

"Not at all, my lord."

She draws out the title like poison dipped in honey.

The other gladiators don’t speak, but I can feel them watching, waiting.

They’re watching, wanting me to break her.

For her to break me.

For blood.

For something else.

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