Page 25 of Warlord's Plaything

I meet him head-on, chin tilted up, heartbeat a slow, steady drum against my ribs.

If he’s expecting fear, he’s going to be fucking disappointed.

Xyron stops a breath away.

His scent is everywhere—dark spice, clean steel, something faintly smoky and sharp.

I hate that it’s familiar now.

I hate that my body recognizes it before my mind does.

His gaze rakes over me. Slowly. Like he’s considering whether to devour or destroy.

His fingers twitch at his sides.

"You really don’t know when to quit," he murmurs, voice low, dangerous.

I smirk. "Neither do you, apparently. Otherwise, I’d be dead by now."

His lips curl.

"Is that what you want?" He raises his head. "To die?"

I lean in just enough to make the space between us tight, suffocating.

"You’d like that too much, wouldn’t you?"

A beat of silence.

Then, he laughs.

It’s not soft.

It’s dark, rough-edged, cruel.

And worse—it’s amused.

"Gods, you really are something," he breathes, shaking his head.

He moves before I can react—gripping my chin, tilting my face up to his.

Not gentle.

Not brutal.

Just enough to say: I could break you if I wanted to.

I don’t look away.

His thumb drags against my lower lip, slow, considering.

The heat coils low in my stomach, something wrong and unwanted and infuriating.

"You like testing limits," he murmurs.

His voice is softer now, but no less lethal.

I let my lips curl, parting them just slightly against his thumb, dragging my tongue against the pad of his finger.

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